


we've not yet lost all our graces

by wintermadethissoldier



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: 1930s, 1940s, 40s setting, AU, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky wants Steve to love him for him, Character Death, Coney Island, Deception, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Irish Sarah Rogers, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Sexual Content, Military Homophobia, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rich Bucky, Rich Bucky AU, Sex, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Teenagers, The little shit is rich and summers in the hamptons, Torture, Violence, War, becca barnes is a good sister, bucky is afraid of storms and heights, multi year
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2020-05-13 08:33:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 128,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19247590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintermadethissoldier/pseuds/wintermadethissoldier
Summary: Bucky belongs to one of the richest families in New York. Steve lives in a tenement in Brooklyn and barely gets by. When they meet, Bucky lies about his life, wanting Steve to like him for more than just his wealth. He wasn't planning on falling in love with him.aka Rich Bucky fic





	1. spring, 1932

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Team - Lorde

It was May of 1932, uncomfortably humid and sticky in that charming New York way when Steve found himself, yet again, being thrown into trash. He had yelled at two guys trying to rob a kid that didn’t look old enough to even need pockets and, naturally, they lost interest in the boy in favor of shaking Steve down. Unfortunately for them, Steve didn’t even have enough money to take the bus home from school and they found a grand total of one pencil, the nub of a rubber eraser, and plenty of pocket lint. Unfortunately for Steve, his lack of money only enraged them further—two boys tired of watery soup and the hollow look in their fathers’ eyes when another job fell through—and Steve has what many people had referred to as a “very punchable mug”.

Hence, the trash.

He was bleeding from his nose and lip, but he was pretty sure he had them on the ropes. After all, he had been practicing his right hook in the mirror and he was pretty sure he could give one of them a mean black eye if they would just stand still.

“Stay down, wouldn’t you? Christ, this kid.” The smaller one of the two groans, rubbing his bloodied knuckles on his slacks.

Steve tries to say something, but it comes out more garbled than he’d like. He tries to prop himself up on his elbows, sliding further into the stacked bags of trash. Dammit, his ma’s gonna kill him if he stains another pair of clothes. But before he can spit the blood out of his mouth and try again, one of the boys is going down with a surprised cry. Before the other can react, he’s on the ground as well, clutching his face with a groan. Steve barely has time to register what’s going on before both of them are being hauled by the back of their shirts and shoved towards the mouth of the alley and hears an audible _whump_   as they’re kicked from behind into the street.

Steve tries struggling to his feet before a hand shoots out and grabs his own, hauling him to his feet. Steve stumbles slightly at the force of it and feels a hand on his elbow, steadying him as he looks up into ice-blue eyes that look far more concerned than Steve is accustomed to.

“You alright?” The guy asks, looking Steve up and down as if for injuries. “Those guys got a few good hits in, eh?”

“I had them.” Steve’s response is almost automatic, repeated dozens of times to concerned waiters and bartenders, policemen and nice old women walking their dogs.

The stranger laughs— _actually laughs—_ at him, shaking his head like he’s heard this excuse a thousand times before. “You got heart, kid. Maybe not the brains to back it up, but the heart’s there for sure. What’s your name?”

“Steve.” He bristles slightly over the laugh until he realizes that it’s all genuine and bright, none of the mean-spirited snickering he got so often. So he gives this pretty stranger his name, sticking his hand again.

“My friends call me Bucky.” He grabs Steve’s hand and shakes it, a half-smile on his lips. And although he doesn’t really believe in fate, Steve can’t deny that he feels a spark of something as their fingers touch.

 

* * *

 

“You’re shitting me. You are _not_ fourteen.” And Bucky’s right, he’s _not_ fourteen. He’s thirteen, but he’s turning fourteen in two months so he’s practically there anyway. He knows he looks small for his age, but he’s got the pluck and mouth on him to make his actual age believable enough. He’s still brushing dirt and something sticky he doesn’t want to think too hard about off of his trousers, leading the way back to Brooklyn for Bucky. He had insisted that he walk him back to wherever he needed to go, since he couldn’t have a little kid getting beat up on his conscience. Steve was all too quick to correct him.

“What, d’you need to ask my ma? Believe me, I looked a lot smaller at nine.” He looks up at Bucky, trying to figure him out. He stands out in this part of New York, his suit far too crisp and tailored to fit in with the masses of patched-up, weathered suits that have been handed off through several generations. But his gait is easy and loping, like he’s walked this path a thousand times before and Steve is left even more confused than when Bucky pulled him out of the trash.

“And what, you like getting hit?” Bucky challenges, raising an eyebrow. And though Steve’s heard the question a million times before, he still flushes.

“They were trying to rough up a kid. I couldn’t just stand there.” And he knows what comes after, has heard it a million times from his own mother. _Of course you can. It isn’t your problem._

But Bucky stays silent for another block, long enough to make Steve nervous. “Well, you got guts, that’s for sure.” Steve smiles, a small, hidden thing that he tucks away into the folds of his heart for later. They walk in an easy, comfortable silence until they get to Steve’s flat; it’s a rundown building with a sinking roof and is far too overcrowded to be safe, but it’s 1932 and it’s home. They’re lucky to have that much at all.

“Thank you.” Steve says, realizing too late that he never thanked Bucky for saving his ass back there. He still doesn’t really understand why, but he strangely doesn’t feel the need to ask. He’s too busy being enthralled with and entirely confused by Bucky to focus on much else.

“Like you said, I couldn’t just stand there and watch.” The corners of Bucky’s eyes crinkle as he smiles, far more genuine than the half-smirks he’s been privy to over the past half hour. “You’re not half bad, Steve. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Brooklyn?” Steve asks, disbelieving. He still isn’t quite sure where Bucky fits in, but it sure as hell couldn’t be Brooklyn. Not with that suit. He must have given Bucky the up-down, because suddenly Bucky’s laughing and shaking his head.

“What? What do I look like to you? The fucking Hamptons?” At that Steve lets out a little laugh because they both know that no one from that end of the city would willingly subject themselves to the abject poverty of the rest of New York. And while there’s something that sets Bucky apart from Steve and the dilapidated apartment behind him, he doesn’t think it’s that extreme. Something shifts in Bucky’s eyes when he looks at him, but he barely has enough time to notice it, let alone ponder what it means.

“I hang around Frankie’s on Atlantic. You should stop by sometime. Unless you’ve got plans to start another fight.” The cocky smile is back and Steve finds himself smiling in spite of himself and nodding.

“Yeah, I might see you around, then.” He turns to leave, stealing one last glance out of the corner of his eye.

“See ya ‘round, Steve.” Bucky says with a mock salute, watching his receding form.

Steve turns, huffing a laugh before returning the salute. “See you, Bucky.”

It’s not until he turns his key in the lock that he realizes that he’s made his first friend in a long time.

 

* * *

 

Frankie’s had become fairly popular in the past few years, largely because it was the one of the few places in Brooklyn where you could loiter without paying. Frankie, the owner, was an old Italian man that opened his soda fountain shop in the mid 1910s and refused to go down in the Depression without a fight. He planned on keeping the place open on client loyalty alone, letting the smoking, reckless teens lounge at the counter and tables for hours on end without paying for a thing. It paid off in the end, because whenever the kids did have money to spare, it was always spent at Frankie’s. Most people believed the rumor that Frankie was part of the mafia and had made so much money off of the Prohibition that he could afford to keep the parlor open through the Depression, but no one complained.

Steve sometimes went to idly doodle in one of his sketchbooks, but now that paper was scarce and he didn’t really have friends, he didn’t have any reason to go out. His poor health had kept him from maintaining any kind of longstanding relationship with his classmates, and most of the kids his age wanted to play sports that made him feel like he was breathing through a straw. He usually doesn’t mind it too much—he had his mom and his sketchbooks and the novels that had once belonged to his father—but sometimes he did get lonely. He knows his mother worried about him, always ruffling his hair and calling him “too serious” with a sad look in her eyes. He knew that Bucky could just be pulling his chain, playing around with a kid that clearly couldn’t fight back, but something about Bucky made Steve want to trust him. Perhaps he was just lonely and naive enough to believe that someone as suave and enigmatic as Bucky would want to hang around Steve, but he found himself at Frankie’s after school the next day. He took a seat at the counter facing the window, pulling out his sketchbook and pencil he had whittled down to little more than a few inches of lead.

He doesn’t realize that he’s started sketching Bucky’s profile until he feels someone looming over his shoulder. “Hey, not half bad. Is my nose really that big, though?”

Steve’s heart nearly leaps out of his chest from the surprise, heat rushing to his cheeks. “Jeez.” He stammers, pressing a fist to his chest. “Warn a guy, would you?” He snaps the sketchbook shut, spinning his chair to face Bucky. “You came.”

“What, you thought I wouldn’t? I’m hurt, Stevie, I really am.” He hops up onto the stool next to him as natural as if they’d been friends for ages. “I hope you like root beer floats, I got two. Were you really drawing me?”

Steve feels like his head is spinning trying to keep up with Bucky’s fast pace. “I can’t– I didn’t bring any money.” It barely registers to him that it should be something he should be ashamed of; after all, now the whole country is at the level him and his ma had been at since he could remember. “And I wasn’t. I don’t think. I was just...sometimes I just space out and don’t realize what I’m drawing.” Steve stumbles over his words, another blush creeping up his neck. _Dammit, this is why you don’t have friends,_ he chastises in his head.

Wait, did Bucky call him _Stevie_? What the hell?

Bucky just smiles easily, propping his elbows up on the counter. “Don’t worry about it. I got some pocket money to spare for a new pal. And it looked good. How long’ve you been drawing?”

Steve isn’t used to this—to people that are genuinely interested in his life. Of course, Bucky could still be messing for him, but something deep down in Steve wants so badly for all of this to be genuine. A new pal. His mom is gonna be thrilled. He shrugs, running his thumb down the binding of his sketchbook. “Ever since I can remember, I guess. When we can afford the supplies, that is.”

He’s interrupted by Frankie, all slicked-back hair and his candy-striped apron bulging around the middle. “Barnes.” He says, nodding to Bucky and setting down two frosty glasses of root beer and ice cream. Steve can feel the eyes of the rest of the room on the two of them and flushes, yet again. Damn his Irish complexion. Something shutters in Bucky’s eyes but he smiles graciously, returning the nod. “Thanks, Frankie.” Frankie just gives him a half-smile in response, heading back behind the counter.

Bucky takes a glass and slides the other over to Steve, stirring absentmindedly with his straw. “You wanna be an artist?”

Steve shrugs again, hesitating for a moment before pulling the glass towards him. He takes a tentative sip and closes his eyes in pleasure. Sugar. _Real_ sugar that’s syrupy sweet and overloads his tastebuds. He opens his eyes to see Bucky watching him with an inscrutable expression, making Steve flush. Again. “I mean, yeah, if I can. It’s not a great way to make money, but I can’t exactly work in a factory or something.” He gestures down to his slight frame, taking another sip of his float. “Thank you for this. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had one of these.” He gives Bucky one of the trademark Rogers smiles that his ma keeps saying will make a girl fall for him one day. He isn’t sure he believes her, but maybe it can work at making friends. “Is that your last name? Barnes?” He asks, tipping his head back towards the general direction of the counter.

“I think that’s swell. I like art. Ever been to the Met?” Bucky spoons off some of the foam at the top of his glass, sticking it in his mouth. “Don’t mention it. And yeah,” He flicks his gaze down towards his glass, spinning it a bit. “’s my name. Bucky Barnes. It's alliteration—just learned that one in school.” He’s grinning back up at Steve again, that cocky half-smile that makes Steve’s stomach do weird things. “And yours? Steve...Smith? Nah, that doesn’t sound right. You got a matching name too?”

Steve just shakes his head, smiling a bit. “No, not yet. I’ve always wanted to go, but we’ve just never had the money. And no, nothing fun. Just Rogers.”

“Steve Just Rogers.” Bucky makes a humming noise in the back of his throat, leaning against the counter. “Yeah, that fits you.” His smile turns wicked as he lifts his glass to his lips.

“Didn’t your ma ever warn you about a smart mouth?” The words are out of Steve’s mouth before he can stop them, easy banter he hasn’t had with anyone except for his mom in ages.

“Didn’t yours ever tell you to respect your elders?”

“C’mon, how old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, sticking a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. He nearly faints, it’s so rich. “You’re only a year older! That doesn’t count.”

“Does too. It means you gotta listen to me.” Bucky tips his head to the side, looking down at him through his lashes.

Steve just makes a humming noise, rolls his eyes. “I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“’Course it is! It’s basically written into the laws of the universe. For my first royal decree, I declare that you must...” He trails off, his eyes flicking to the left as he thinks. “That you let me teach you how to fight.”

Steve sputters, coughing on his sip of soda. “What?”

“You don’t strike me as a guy that backs down from much. I like that. But you’re also two skipped meals from blowing away in a stiff wind and you can’t throw a punch to save your life. I’d rather not spend this whole year scraping you off of the floor.” Bucky’s tone is light, but Steve can see something in his eyes that hints at something more serious. He’s heard this a thousand times before from just about everyone—he isn’t going to win a fight and he should stop looking for trouble. But he can’t just stand by when things are bad and Bucky is the first person that’s respected that and has suggested something other than just running the other way.

“You know how to fight?” Is the only thing that Steve can think to say, eyeing his clothing.

“What? Can’t dress nice and throw a mean hook too? I took care of those guys yesterday, didn’t I? Trust me, I can fight. I promise I won’t give you too many black eyes.” He grins, the sparkle back in his eyes. “We can go to the park. Or your place, if your ma doesn’t mind.”

Steve groans, shaking his head. “Oh, she would mind. She hates me fighting. Says I’m gonna put her into an early grave.” He pauses for a few moments, taking in everything. “But you can really teach me how to fight?”

“Kid, somebody’s gotta.”

And just like that, a friendship was born.

 

* * *

 

They start meeting almost every day after school in an empty basketball court or the park by Steve’s house, Bucky ditching his nicer clothes for white t-shirts and suspenders. They fall into an easy rhythm, Bucky walking him through blocks and punches while they talk about their lives. Bucky learns that Steve’s a walking medical miracle, Steve learns that Bucky lives above a bakery in DUMBO. Steve learns how to actually execute a right hook and learns that Bucky likes math. Bucky blocks Steve’s weak attempt at a punch to his midsection and finds out that Steve has a weakness for caramel. Steve tries his best not to think about the way Bucky’s hair falls out of its gel when they’re moving in the hot sun, curling lightly on his forehead. Bucky tries not to think about how soft Steve’s skin is as he holds his wrist and guides him through a block.

“C’mon, Buck, we both know I’m not going to actually ever get a chance to use these. Everyone’s bigger than me.” Steve complains after their third week of meeting, his arms sore and sweat dripping down his back. Bucky hasn’t stopped drilling him for a good half hour and Steve’s regretting ever agreeing to this in the first place.

“But you’re faster than those lugs. Come on, try and take me down.” Bucky widens his stance, smirking and waving Steve on. “If you can, ice cream’s on me.”

Steve groans, but Bucky knows him well enough by now to know that he will do just about anything for something sweet and cold. “Fine. But don’t knock me out or my ma’ll be coming after you with a rolling pin.”

“That threat’d be a lot more credible if you let me meet her, y’know.” Bucky grins, brushing the hair back from his face. “No more stalling.”

Steve shakes out his arms, crouches just slightly. Bucky has a good seven or eight inches and at least a hundred pounds, and Steve momentarily wonders if he could just punch at his kneecaps and see what happens. Instead he swings up, only for his wrist to be caught in a grip that’s far too loose. “Uh-uh.” Bucky says, his voice dripping with that cocky confidence that twists Steve’s stomach and makes him want to punch him even more. He twists, his other hand coming up to catch Bucky’s jaw. Just as easily, Bucky stops his hand, using the leverage to push him back. “C’mon, Rogers, don’t make me cry. I know I’m not that bad of a teacher.”

And fuck it, Steve thinks, he wants that ice cream. He kicks at Bucky’s shin with his heel, taking advantage of Bucky’s surprise by throwing a punch that’s way too far away from him to do anything—damn his bad eyes and depth perception—and ends up tumbling straight into Bucky’s chest. Bucky tumbles backwards into the grass, Steve falling with a soft _oof_ on top of him. Steve suddenly can’t catch his breath, his face bright red and far too close to Bucky’s as he blinks at him with wide eyes. They stare at each other for several breathless seconds, neither of them daring to move.

“Caramel sundae?” Bucky breaks the silence, smirking and pushing Steve off of him and hauling them both to their feet. Steve decides to blame the dizziness on the fall.

 

* * *

 

“Quit fidgeting.” Steve chastises, giving Bucky a sidelong glance. They were standing outside of Steve’s apartment, the younger boy finally relenting to both Sarah and Bucky’s demands to meet each other. Steve couldn’t blame though, he was pretty nervous himself, despite knowing that she would love him. After all, who didn’t love Bucky?

“What if she doesn’t like me?” Bucky fusses with the buttons on his suit jacket, looking helplessly over at Steve. He realizes this is perhaps the first time he’s seen Bucky out of his element, no longer the suave, smooth-talking boy that stole a bag of peaches for them to share the night before.

“She’ll like you. And if she doesn’t, I guess I’ll just have to get good at lyin’.” Steve shrugs, fishing his key out of his pocket. “Ready?” He turns, catching the last of the soft, almost relieved look in Bucky’s eyes. At his nod, Steve opens the door and leads them both inside.

“Ma? We’re home.” He calls, shutting the door behind him softly. Sarah Rogers straightens from where she was looking under the sink, her hair piled on top of her hair and pulled back with a bandana. She grins, wiping sweat off of her brow with the back of her hand and walks over to them.

“You must be Bucky. Steve’s told me a lot about you.” Steve flushes with embarrassment, but she barrels on, undeterred. “You got him out of a fight?”

Bucky nods, his spine ramrod straight. “Yes ma’am. He’s told me a lot about you, too. All good things, of course. And yes, ma’am, I did. Couldn’t stand by and watch, y’know?” He allows himself a small smile, catching Steve’s eyes with a sideways glance.

“Please, call me Sarah.” She puts her hands on her hips, looking him up and down. “Well, Stevie, I think you’ve really found a keeper.” She grins, pulling Bucky into a bone-crushing hug. He lets out a small sound of surprise, his arms going up around Sarah automatically. She smells like fresh air and a bit like grease, the rough fabric of her overalls completely different from the silks and soft cottons he’s used to with his parents. He isn’t used to people being this free with their affections, but he finds himself wanting more.

“ _Mom_.” Steve protests, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t scare him off already.”

“You’re never too old for mother hugs, boy.” She pulls back from Bucky and gathers Steve into her arms, kissing the top of his head. “You boys make yourself at home. I’ve got to finish fixing the leak under the sink. You staying for dinner, sweetheart?” She turns her attention back to Bucky, ruffling Steve’s hair before he ducks out from underneath her with an annoyed grunt.

“I- I wouldn’t want to impose.” Bucky stammers, every comment Steve’s made about their money situation flooding to the forefront of his mind. “You know plumbing?” He perks up, already peering around her to look at the sink. “D’you mind if I take a look?” Sarah gives him a look and he visibly backtracks, a flush crawling up his neck. “Not that you can’t do it! I just– I like fixin’ stuff.” He shrugs and looks sheepish for the first time since Bucky met him three weeks ago.

Sarah relaxes and gestures to the sink. “Be my guest. I think a valve’s loose, but no amount of tightening will do a darn thing to it. Oh, and you’re staying for dinner.” Bucky follows her into the kitchen and Steve gapes at both of them, left standing in the middle of his apartment. His mother stole his damn friend. He supposes he should be grateful that it’s going so well and curls up on the couch, flipping over a flyer he had gotten on the street earlier that day and grabbing one of his last usable pencils. He starts sketching the two of them, crouched underneath their sink, Bucky in a suit coat and his mother in overalls she’s had since Steve was born. Something about the scene lifts Steve’s heart, squeezing it in that odd way that always seems to accompany his time with Bucky.

“So you like fixing things?” Sarah asks from underneath the sink, running her fingers along the seams of the pipes.

“Cars, mostly. But those are a bit harder to find nowadays.” He shrugs, rubbing his palms against his knees. “And you? Steve said you’re a nurse. That’s fixing things, ain’t it?”

Sarah blows out a laugh that sounds like wind chimes in spring. “I guess it is, isn’t it? I like helping out where I can—after the war ended, I got to keep my job. I’m luckier than most.” She shoots a glance at Steve, her eyes softening. “Steve tells me you live nearby?”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit he’s had since childhood. “Yeah, just east of here. I guess I’m kinda new here—I moved about a year ago to go to school here. Said I needed some better friends.” He gives her another sheepish smile before peering back underneath the sink. It wasn’t a total lie. The private all-boys high school was right across the Manhattan Bridge and Bucky had lobbied for more independence when he hit high school. He still went home on the weekends, but him and one of their butlers lived in a relatively modest two bedroom in DUMBO. Having a posse of boys that hung onto his every word was nice, but it had worn him down over the years once he realized they were only interested in what he could do for them. Their parents, more often than not, had pushed their children into befriending Bucky so they would secure invites to exclusive parties and business deals with his father. He just wanted to be a normal kid, at least outside of school; he thinks he might have finally found that with Steve.

“Well, Steve’s certainly what a mother would call ‘a good friend’.” She smiles, handing him the wrench and scooting over for him to try and tighten the valve. “He’s a good kid.” Her voice is soft, but Bucky can hear the unspoken _don’t hurt him_ as clear as day.

“He is.” He agrees, pausing to meet her eyes. “I promise I’ll keep him safe.” He holds her gaze for a beat before disappearing underneath the counter, knocking around with the wrench. To his right, Sarah relaxes visibly and sends her eyes heavenward, a silent prayer of thanks on her lips.

 

* * *

 

They sit around Steve’s kitchen table, bowls of soup sending curls of steam up into the air. Bucky was beyond shocked at what Sarah could do with what he would consider a completely empty kitchen, throwing together what little they had into something that smelled delicious and looked fairly hearty. He still felt guilty for staying, but Sarah would have none of it, waving down his objections and all but forcing him into a chair.

He was surprised when Sarah reached for his hand across the table, taking Steve’s in her own and bowing her head. His family was religious in the way that the East River water was safe to drink and he was only vaguely aware of how to pray. He glances over at Steve, who gives him a guilty look and mouths _Irish Catholic_ at him before holding out a hand to him. Bucky’s heart leaps in his chest, all at once realizing that he would have to hold Steve’s hand for at least a little bit. Were his hands sweaty? Why would his hands be sweaty? Why was he so damn nervous? He makes himself reach for Steve, his palm resting on top of Steve’s, his thin artist’s fingers curling loosely around the top of Bucky’s hand and knocking something loose in his chest.

“Holy Father, thank you for this day. Thank you for the opportunity to eat together, for the food You have provided, for putting Bucky into our lives. Bless this food and this home and, if it be your will, keep us all in good health.” Sarah squeezes Steve’s hand at that, her lips tightening at the corners. “In Your blessed name, amen.”

Steve mumbles an “amen” after her, squeezing Bucky’s hand before letting it drop. Bucky says his own amen a bit belatedly, not hearing a single word of the prayer over the hammering in his chest. Was he having a heart attack? Could he have a heart attack at fifteen?

“Thank you, Sarah.” He finally gets out, glancing at the both of them. “Really.”

She smiles warmly and he realizes that, like Steve, her smile lights up the whole room every time. “You’re always welcome here, Bucky. Consider yourself part of the family.”

Bucky ducks his head, focusing on blowing on his soup to hide the fact that his eyes were, inexplicably, filling with tears.

 

* * *

 

“I’m home!” Bucky calls, setting down his weekend duffel only for it to be whisked away by a butler.

His mom appears at the top of the staircase, almost running to get to him. She pulls him into a hug, kissing his cheek with a loud smack. “Darling, we missed you so much.” She says, stepping back to cup his cheeks in her hands. “How was school?”

“It was fine, ma.” He smiles easily, patting her hands. “I missed you too. Is Becca home?”

“She’s out with friends right now, but she should be getting home soon. Listen, your father and I were talking, and I think we should repaint your room at the summer house before we go. If you pick out the color this weekend, I can get someone to go out there and start working this week.” She hums, picking invisible lint off of his shoulder. She smells like Chanel No. 5 and he’s pretty sure he could pay for Steve’s rent for a whole year with one of his mom’s bracelets alone. Strange, he never used to think about money like this before.

“About that...” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I want to stay in DUMBO this summer.” He knows he should be having this conversation with his father present, but he’s off in Paris overseeing an exhibition in the Louvre and he doesn’t want to drag this out longer than it needs to be.

Winnie Barnes narrows her eyes, tilting her head to the side like she isn’t quite sure what she just heard. “Sweetheart, I promise you don’t need summer school.” She tries, waving a hand. “There’s no reason to graduate in three years, we’ve talked about this.”

Bucky shakes his head, fiddling with his cuff. “No, not for summer school. I thought it would be nice to...well, I’ve made friends, ma. Real ones.” He feels it best to leave out the fact that really it’s just Steve, and that how he could care less for the other boys at school that follow him like lost puppies. Steve likes him for his personality, for his sharp wit, for his heart—not his money. Steve doesn’t know that he has a summer house in the Hamptons, a mansion in the Upper East Side, that his father is the head of the board for the Met, that his mother is a Rockefeller. He doesn’t know that Bucky’s family has barely noticed the Depression going around them, that they usually spend Christmas in Italy. He wants it to stay like that—he knew there was something special about Steve the first time their fingers brushed in that alley; he desperately wants Steve to like him for who he is, not for what he has.

His mother looks at him with a mixture of pity and compassion, sighing. “James, we already made a lot of concessions on letting you live in that part of town. Your friends are always more than welcome to stay with us, you know.”

For a moment, Bucky lets himself imagine it—Steve and him, lounging in the sun on the boat and pointing out shapes in the clouds, Steve sketching the view of the Atlantic from his balcony, Bucky trying to impress him with his newly-acquired diving skills. But it had been over a month since he had first met Steve and he would never forgive him for withholding that part of his life from him for this long. Steve might be mad, might never talk to him again. Sarah would be so disappointed in him. The thought of that alone makes his heart rate pick up dangerously, the nape of his neck breaking out into a cold sweat.

“They can’t. Please, mom. I’ll still see you guys, maybe spend a few weeks or so up there. I’m gonna be an upperclassman next year, I can’t fall behind socially. All the guys are staying home this summer.” Another lie. He had no clue what the other boys his age were doing this summer—probably spending it traveling, lying in the sun, and ordering people around. And while those three things were some of Bucky’s favorite things in the world, he still desperately wanted to spend his summer days in Steve’s little apartment, in the park doing boxing drills in the shade, and gorging themselves on too much ice cream. Maybe they could even go to Coney Island.

Winnie sighs, her mouth pulling into a tiny frown. But Bucky had been born with natural charm and a face that made it hard to say no to him, and he had always been his mother’s favorite. She sighs finally, shaking her head. “I’ll talk to your father when he gets home. Dinner will be at 7, go get settled.” She gives him another kiss on the cheek, turning on her heel to check up on the kitchen staff.

He trudges upstairs, falling backwards onto his too-big bed. He wishes Steve had a telephone, already misses his snark and comforting presence. He knows he could just take him home for the weekend, introduce him to his parents and his life. His folks might be weird about it at first, but they were both good people; his father had started out with almost nothing, he would appreciate Steve’s fiery spirit and his art. His mother’s charm and kindness knew no end even if she wasn’t always the most aware, and Becca would be thrilled that Steve had an actual personality. He wasn’t ashamed of Steve, wasn’t ashamed of sharing him with his family; he was afraid that Steve would look at him differently. He was afraid that if he knew, their entire dynamic would shift or their entire friendship would fall apart entirely. Steve wasn’t materialistic, wouldn’t be like the guys that hung onto Bucky of hope that he would toss them a few coins and expensive birthday presents. But even Bucky was aware that the rest of the country was in financial ruin, and that Steve and Sarah were barely making ends meet.

He sat straight up, almost kicking himself for how stupid he had been. There was nothing saying he couldn’t use his allowance to help the two of them, but they never had to know it was from him. He could start by buying Steve a new sketchbook, more pencils to replace the little nubs he pinched between his fingers until his hand cramped. He could talk to the landlord, get their rent lowered if Bucky paid part of it under the table. He could take Steve to the Met and claim he got the tickets from school, show him exactly where he’d frame Steve’s artwork in ten year’s time. He felt almost giddy with the possibilities, the hope of staying near Brooklyn for the summer and spending the majority of it with Steve. He could spend Steve’s birthday with him, maybe teach him the basics of tennis if his lungs would hold up.

Bucky could have virtually anything in the world, but what he wanted most was more time with his best friend.

Why couldn’t he have both?


	2. summer, 1932

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all! sorry for the slow update. i'm in the process of moving right now so my life is a little crazy. enjoy!

Bucky makes a slow lap around the ballroom, a glass of champagne dangling from his fingers; prohibition be damned—his parents’ parties always included both free-flowing alcohol and the police chief. No one bats an eye as he takes another sip from his flute because the eldest Barnes child can do no wrong, ever the charmer with icy-blue eyes that no one was able to resist from the time he was born. He knows it should scare him, how easily he can shift back into James Barnes, the perfect golden son and heir to more money than God himself. They’re subtle shifts that make up his other side, but he knows that Steve would barely be able to recognize him like this, the whole world eating out of the palm of his hand and scrambling to anticipate his every need. The way his back straightens, how his entire speech pattern, the dark glint to his eyes that comes with being born into power—they are not the same mannerisms of the boy that wrestles Steve in the park and strolls the streets of Brooklyn with his hands deep in his pockets.

His mother had agreed to him staying in Dumbo for the summer, provided that he spent at least a few weeks with them, including his father’s birthday party. He can change his entire demeanor within moments, but he can’t change the fact that he desperately wants Steve here with him. He has one of Steve’s drawings tucked into his suit pocket, a sketch of the skyline from his apartment that Bucky had surreptitiously lifted from where it lay under a pile of books the week before. Though Bucky had never been good at art himself, he had grown up around the finest works and had bounced on the knees of the most famous artists in the world as a baby. He had a refined eye and knew that Steve has potential, especially for his age, but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity for second opinions; he was surrounded by the most premiere artists of the time and the entire board of the Met, ever-willing to indulge him. He needed to know more about how to support Steve, what the best supplies were, where the best teachers were in the city.

But a drawing was a poor substitute for the real Steve, who could put Bucky at ease with his presence alone and made him feel like his heart was cracking open with happiness. But he knows that Steve couldn’t be here; he would be wildly uncomfortable with the thick perfume and cigarette smoke, the opulent and shameless wealth thrown around so casually. Even though Steve was barely scraping by himself, he was constantly worried about the rest of New York, the rest of the country, the rest of the world. Steve, who kept a handful of oats in his pocket to throw to the birds even though he often went without meals. Steve, who sits and talks to the homeless man near Frankie’s every time they go and often wheedles Bucky into buying the guy lunch. He’s so goddamn sweet it feels like Bucky’s teeth might rot right out of his skull and makes his heart twist in a way he can’t quite understand. His apartment in Dumbo is the smallest space he’s ever lived in, even though he has a live-in butler and a chef that comes in to make meals; he hadn’t really interacted with anyone outside of his family’s circles until he met Steve. And with Steve came an introduction to a whole grim reality that made Bucky question himself and his upbringing far more often than he was comfortable with.

No, he didn’t think Steve would necessarily like parties like this. Not to mention, it was far too late to tell Steve that Bucky was vastly wealthy. If he told him now, he knows Steve would be mad at him, and the mere thought of him turning all of that righteous anger on Bucky was worse than anything he could imagine. He pats his pocket to make sure the drawing is secure, smiling a bit to himself as he takes another sip of champagne. Becca appears at his elbow, downing the rest of her punch. “You look uncharacteristically happy.” She muses, nudging his side.

Bucky just rolls his eyes, resisting the urge to pull the ribbon out of her hair. “Are you saying that I’m not a happy person? I take offense to that. I’ll have you know I’m perfectly pleasant.” That gets a snort from Becca, who sets her glass on a passing waiter’s tray.

“For them, maybe.” She folds her arms across her chest, turning towards him. “You missed Francis tripping into a tray of champagne. Really, this whole thing is a riot.”

“You know nobody is falling for your British accent, right? You know mother will have your head if she hears you talking to somebody important with that nonsense.” He shakes his head, nudging her back and finishing off the last of his champagne. “And to think, we still have hours of this left to go. How lucky are we. How’s Claudia?”

“In France.” Becca sighs miserably, blowing out an undignified huff. “I wouldn’t be absolutely dying of boredom if she was here. I’ve been spending the entire night trying to evade Walter without him realizing I’m avoiding him.” An old family friend, the Carraways had a son around the same age as Becca who had recently discovered that girls were quite attractive. Lucky for her, they were only thirteen and his marriage proposals hadn’t gotten him very far.

“I know how you feel.” He says without thinking, blue eyes and a bright, crooked smile flashing through his mind. Dammit, he missed his best friend something awful. Becca doesn’t notice his reminiscing, already peering around him into the crowd. “I see dear Aunt Jillian, I think. I’d better go say hello before she starts pinching cheeks first, talking later.”

She disappears before Bucky can open his mouth, his lips twisting into something that could be interpreted as frustration. _Could be_ , if Bucky was known for being someone other than a complete charmer. Instead, he schools his face back into its mask of self-confidence and heads into the fray, trying to grab someone and get their expert opinion on Steve’s art.

 

* * *

 

He pulls on the knot of his tie as he walks into his room, pulling it over his head and tossing it over a chair. Five hours later and the party was finally over, the last of the guests filtering out of the house and the staff busy cleaning up downstairs. He undoes the top buttons of his shirt, leaning over his desk to jot down the names of the art supplies he was told to get for Steve before he goes back to Brooklyn. He fiddles with his cufflinks, tiny _J_ s etched into the gold that his father gave him for his thirteenth birthday, before shucking off his suit jacket and draping it over the desk chair. He pauses for a moment before fishing out the skyline sketch from his pocket, unfolding the paper and smoothing the creases. He watched Steve draw this one out on the fire escape, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration as he looked from the skyline to his paper. The Brooklyn Bridge stretched before them, the Manhattan skyline far enough away that it made Bucky feel like he and Steve were entirely isolated from the rest of the world. He had only known Steve for a little over a month, but he knew with a certainty deep in his stomach that this was something good, something that would outlast the Depression and Prohibition and Manhattan itself.

He tacks the painting to the wall above his bed, feeling a bit better knowing that at least some part of Steve would be always with him here. He unlatches the case at the foot of his bed, lifting a violin to rest underneath his chin. He walks out onto his balcony, turns towards the Brooklyn Bridge glittering in the distance, and starts to play.

 

* * *

 

“Wake up.” Steve groans at the pillow that’s been ripped out from underneath him and thrown at his face, half-heartedly swinging his arm in the general direction of whoever had bothered him.

“Five more minutes.” He mumbles into the mattress, pulling the thin sheet closer around himself.

“I brought bagels.” Steve bolts up immediately at the mention of carbs, blinking away the dizziness from too-fast movement. It takes him a few moments to process that Bucky’s sitting on his bed, Steve’s face breaking out into a wide smile. “You’re back.”

“And glad to see you have remained in one piece in my absence. I brought you something.” He grins, lifting a bag from the floor and handing it to Steve.

Steve blinks at the bag like he’s not quite sure what to do with it, looking from the door to the bag and back to Bucky. “Did you break into my apartment?”

Bucky barks out a laugh at the way Steve’s eyes narrow, the Very Disapproving look that Steve only gets when Bucky’s done something truly ridiculous coming out to play. “Your ma let me in, punk. You’re giving me a lot of credit for thinking I know how to pick a lock. Though, maybe I should learn—ladies love a bad boy, I hear.” He grins wolfishly, flexing his arm and winking at Steve. He’s rewarded with an eye roll that involves Steve’s whole body before he starts tearing into the paper.

Steve’s whole body freezes as he pulls out a sketchbook, a noise that’s something like a confused sob catching in his throat. Bucky nudges his knee against Steve’s, encouraging him to continue. He watches as Steve’s eyes widen with each item he pulls out—watercolors, a pack of graphite pencils, erasers, a set of colored pencils. Bucky feels quite pleased with himself until he sees the tears glistening in Steve’s eyes, sending Bucky into a near panic.

“If you don’t like it, we can– I can return it. I don’t really know what I’m doing but I– I mean, we can get something else. I know you said you’re colorblind but I was thinking maybe I could help you if you wanted somethin’ specific, y’know, for colors. I mean, if you just want graphite I can–” He’s cut off by Steve pitching himself forward, flinging his arms around Bucky’s neck. He lets out a soft _oof_ of surprise, wrapping his arms around him instinctively. He doesn’t realize Steve’s crying until he feels tears falling on his neck, fracturing Bucky’s heart.

“Hey, Stevie, don’t cry. I want you to keep drawin’—you’re real good, y’know? Maybe you’ll draw my mug even better than how I look in the mirror, yeah?” Bucky rubs his back, trying not to panic even further. “My ma...she knows a guy, a retired artist. He let me poke around in his old studio, let me take whatever I want. He doesn’t paint so much anymore and wanted them to go to use.” It’s not technically a lie, since the man who owns the shop he bought everything from _is_ a retired artist.

Steve just tightens his grip around him, hiccuping softly. “You shouldn’t have.” He stammers eventually, sniffing. He pulls back from Bucky and the sight of him puffy-eyed and red-nosed breaks Bucky’s heart all over again. He didn’t even glance at the total when he bought everything but he knows that it’s more than Steve would ever be able to afford, that this might be the most expensive gift he’s gotten in years, if not his entire life. He wanted to bring out that wide smile Steve saves for him and Sarah only, the one that could paint canvases bright yellow and put Van Gogh to shame. He didn’t want to make him cry, to look at Bucky with those big guilty eyes that could make a man confess all of his sins.

“They’re perfect. You– You shouldn’t have.” Steve tries again, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. Bucky shakes his head, using the same tone he’d use with a wounded animal.

“Of course I should have. You deserve it.”

Outside his room, Sarah Rogers leans on the other side of the door frame and smiles.

 

* * *

 

Steve peeks through his fingers at Bucky, who is hunched over and intensely focused on lighting the end of a firecracker. His moans of protest are drowned out by the sound of the rest of the city setting off fireworks and enjoying whatever bathtub moonshine they’ve managed to scrounge up for the Fourth of July. Bucky had insisted that they celebrate Steve’s birthday with just as much fanfare as the rest of the country was celebrating America’s birthday, much to Steve’s chagrin. He had always liked the fact that his birthday fell on a holiday, all too eager to shift the attention to the fireworks and parades. When he was little, his mother had told him that all of the celebrations were for him, that all of the colors in the sky were put there just for him because he was that special. After he had figured out the truth, his shyness had already set in and he was completely fine with America's birthday pulling focus from his own.

Of course, Bucky hadn’t let him get away with any of that, demanding to know his birth date and making plans weeks in advance. Though it stressed Steve out, he couldn’t deny that there was something nice about having someone that cared enough about him besides his own mother. Bucky had even tried baking Steve a cake, but it had turned out so lopsided and undercooked that they ended up sitting around the Rogers’ dining room table, eating it with a spoon straight out of the pan. Then Bucky had dragged Steve downstairs to the street, where he pulled out explosives and a matchbox with a wicked grin on his face. He was positive that one of them was going to end up losing a finger, but Bucky had been insistent that they set off fireworks of their own. He tried his best not to think about where Bucky had gotten something called a ‘fairy fountain’ as he got one to light, scrambling back towards Steve and laughing wildly.

Steve was only mildly concerned that he had befriended a pyromaniac. He plugs his ears and they watch as sparks shoot half a dozen feet in the air, making an unholy whine as they dance in the dark street. Bucky whoops, pumping his fist in the air and grinning over at Steve, his eyes shining in the light of the fireworks. Steve hesitantly takes his fingers out of his ears, raising an eyebrow at Bucky. “Are you satisfied now?”

Bucky just shakes his head, pulling out something the size of a pencil and pressing it into Steve’s hands. “Hold it tight.” He warns, lighting a match and touching it to the end of the sparkler. Steve yelps, holding it as far away from his body as he can and looking at Bucky as though he’s Benedict Arnold himself.

“Are you insane? You’re going to blow my arm off!” Steve’s turning hysterical, his panic tightening his grip around the sparkler instead of dropping it on the ground like he knows he should. Bucky just grins in response and steps back, watching as sparks fly from the end of Steve’s Roman candle.

“’s harmless, Steve, quit your worrying. Look, it’s fun!” Bucky touches a match to the end of his own, pointing it towards the sky. “Y’think I’d actually put in danger? Gimme more credit.”

“You told me you were going to push me out the window yesterday.” Steve protests, still warily eyeing his sparkler as it starts to sputter and die.

“Yeah, ‘cause you said the Yankees were bad. You brought that upon yourself.”

“I said they were bad in _1913_! We weren’t even alive then!” Steve tosses his sparkler into the street after it dies, wiping his sooty hand on his slacks. “You think I’d insulted your mother.” He watches as Bucky chucks his own sparkler, fiddling with whatever he pulled out of his pocket next. “Speaking of, am I ever going to meet her?”

Bucky freezes instantly, his eyes carefully trained on the pavement. _Shit_. He knew that it was only a matter of time before Steve asked about his parents, had been lucky that he hadn’t brought it up this far. He rubs the back of his neck, chancing a look at Steve. “Uh, it’s...complicated. I mean, I live alone.” He dances around the truth, not _exactly_ lying to Steve but not telling him the whole truth either. It _was_ complicated, not necessarily with his parents, but with trying to be something else for Steve, with Steve. Plus, once he turned sixteen he might be able to ask his mother if he could live alone, maybe somewhere in Brooklyn closer to Steve.

Steve is quiet for a few moments, his eyes flicking between Bucky and a particularly interesting spot on the ground. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to explain. I just...I guess I was worried you were maybe ashamed of me.” Steve finally says quietly, studiously avoiding Bucky’s eyes.

Bucky feels like someone has driven a knife through his chest and for a moment he can’t breathe. And though he could never be ashamed of Steve Rogers in a million years, he knows that’s exactly what it looks like. It looks like he’s hiding Steve because he’s ashamed of the fact that he’s a scrawny poor kid from Brooklyn that probably has never put on a tux in his life. Bucky doesn’t care that Steve doesn’t know the difference between a salad and entree fork or that he doesn’t know how to tie a Windsor knot; he cares that Steve has the biggest heart he’s ever seen and a fighting spirit that’s too big for his slight frame. He cares that Steve sees straight through all of the bullshit he’s wrapped himself up in his whole life and sees him for him, not for his money and not for his family name.

He can never tell him. That much has been apparent since they first met, but it finally hits home with all the finality of a door slamming shut.

“Steve, _no_.” He emphasizes with a shake of his head, stepping closer to him. “You’re the best person I’ve ever met. I could never be ashamed of you. Like I said, it’s just...complicated. You know I see them sometimes, but well, I moved out a while ago. I try to keep my life separate from them, so they can’t ruin it.” He hooks a finger under Steve’s chin, tipping his face up so he can look into his eyes. “I’ll never be ashamed of you, Steve. Of them, maybe, but never of you.”

Steve’s pupils are wide in the dim light of the street and he isn’t sure why his hands are sweaty, but he knows that the way Bucky is looking at him makes him want to squirm. “I wouldn’t ever judge you for your parents.” He says softly, not daring to move a muscle.

Bucky drops his hand anyway, but doesn’t break eye contact with Steve. “I know. But I couldn’t ever subject you to that.” He knows it’s far too dramatic, that he’s making his parents out to be drug-addicted abusers rather than some of the richest people in the country, but he needs Steve to understand. Needs him to look at Bucky, _just_ Bucky, not his family or his money or his estate or anything else that he was born into. Steve only knows Bucky, not James Buchanan, and he would do anything in his power to keep it that way.

Steve finally nods and relief floods through Bucky. He steps back, suddenly aware of how close he’s gotten to Steve. “Let’s go up on the fire escape and watch the fireworks, yeah?” He suggests, sliding the matchbox back into his pocket. Steve nods and they clamber up the steps to his apartment, trying their best to look innocent as Sarah looks between them and at Steve’s blackened pants. He flashes her a winning grin and grabs Steve’s wrist, pulling him into Steve’s room and picking up the satchel he had brought with him.

“Close your eyes and put your hands out.” He tells Steve. Steve, for his credit, only looks mildly worried as he shuts his eyes, humming.

“If you put a frog in my hand, we’re officially no longer friends.” He warns, but puts his hands out nonetheless.

Bucky just laughs, taking out two slips of paper and resting them in Steve’s upturned palms. “No frogs, I promise. Okay, open.”

Steve’s eyelashes flutter as he looks down at the Metropolitan Museum of Art tickets in his palm, his heart stuttering in his chest as he realizes what they are. His head snaps up, looking at Bucky in complete disbelief. “These aren’t...”

“They are. Won ‘em fair and square. We can go whenever you want.” Bucky is trying to keep a stupid smile off of his face but he isn’t sure it’s working. “You can bring your sketchbooks.” He adds, a little awkwardly as an afterthought. “Whatever you want.”

Steve’s looking at him like Bucky’s just handed him the world on a silver platter, his bottom lip trembling and briefly sending Bucky into a panic that Steve is going to cry again. “Buck, I...” He trails off, his mouth hanging open slightly. “I don’t know what to say.”

“‘Yes, Bucky, of course I’ll go with you to the Met,’ is a good start.” He smiles softly, curling Steve’s fingers around the tickets. “You deserve it. You’re gonna be there one day anyway, why not start scoping out where you’ll hang your art?” The tilted, confident grin that Bucky gives him almost splits Steve’s heart clear in two and all he can do is nod.

“Thank you, Bucky.” His voice cracks, from puberty or from the tears threatening to fall from his eyes, he can’t tell.

“Of course, punk. C’mon, we’ll miss the fireworks.” He waits patiently for Steve to slip the tickets underneath the cover of a novel before nudging him towards the living room window. Sarah’s already left for her night shift at the hospital and there’s no one to chastise them as Bucky pulls the window open and climbs out onto the fire escape. He helps Steve out and they sit at the edge, their legs dangling off the edge. They lean against each other in the comforting way of people who have been friends for a lifetime, watching the fireworks explode over the river. He knows his family is celebrating in their Hamptons house with their own fireworks, food, and booze, but he can’t bring himself to miss it too much. Everything seems exactly perfect right here with Steve, the two of them facing a world neither of them quite fit into.

“Happy birthday, Stevie.” Bucky says softly, nudging his shoulder.

The smile Steve turns on him is brighter than all those goddamn fireworks put together.

 

* * *

 

The Met is like a second home to Bucky—he had grown up wandering the archives, watching restorations, sitting in empty exhibition rooms and staring at his favorite pieces for hours. But Steve is fidgeting next to him, excited energy radiating off of him in waves that Bucky can practically feel.

“You ready?” He asks him, knocking their shoulders together and smiling. Steve worries the edge of his sketchbook and nods, his eyes fixed on the white columns of the Met. Bucky nudges him gently forward, letting him have his moment as he walks into the building. He knows that Steve’s been by here, has seen the sketches of the building inside one of his books, but knows he’s never been inside. What Bucky had taken for granted his whole life as yet another playground for him growing up was the Holy Grail for Steve; not just to study and sketch, but as a stark reminder that what he was doing was worthwhile, that _art_ itself was worth it. The Great Depression had tended to suck the color out of things, but art museums were a constant reminder that art and color had existed throughout all of history, even through the darkest times. Even if the entire world was collapsing around them, humans still strove to make sense of the world around them and their own emotions through art; it was perhaps the oldest method of communication.

Bucky knew it, had been raised on a fierce appreciation of art, but he wanted Steve to understand that there was a place for him here. He knew that he got teased at school sometimes for absentmindedly doodling in the margins of his notebooks, had been told by plenty of people that he should start contributing to his household and stop messing around with pencils and paints. But the world would always need art, regardless of what was going on in the world—the need for beauty is as innate in humans as the need for breathing and eating. If Steve wanted to be an artist, then Bucky knew he would end up here one day, inspiring countless others to pick up their medium and create something beautiful. But he didn’t know how to say any of that out loud to Steve, so he hopes that the experience will speak for itself as he follows him through the doors.

As they walk through, the lady working the ticket counter immediately straightens, her eyes fixed on Bucky with a wide, knowing smile. He makes a slicing motion across his throat with his hand, shaking his head and she drops her eyes to Steve. “Good afternoon...boys.” She says, a little strained. “Tickets for two?”

Bucky gently pushes Steve towards her, praying he doesn’t notice the awkward exchange. “We already have tickets, but thank you ma’am.” She almost preens with delight at that, a blush forming high on her cheekbones. Steve absentmindedly hands her the tickets, his eyes flitting over the room as he tries to take everything in at once.

“You two have a great time!” She chirps, handing the stubs back to Steve and glancing back at Bucky again. He winks at her and smiles his charming James Buchanan smile that could get him the keys to the city if he asked. He lets Steve lead the way towards the exhibits, his eyes wider than saucers as he hugs his sketchbook to his chest.

“It’s...it’s perfect.” Steve whispers, more to himself than to Bucky. He’s never been inside of a proper art museum, just a few public displays that were free and relatively close so he didn’t have to take too many trains to get there. “Where are we supposed to start?”

“Anywhere you want, pal. I don’t know if you want to start with Egyptian stuff or something more European or...” He trails off as Steve takes off at a speed he didn’t know such a tiny person was capable of, far too excited to keep waiting around a second longer. Bucky catches up to him easily with his longer legs and stays quiet as he follows Steve through the halls, watching his awed expression closely. It was strange, because he had grown up with these paintings, knew many of the more contemporary artists on a first-name basis, but it felt like he was seeing everything for the first time through Steve’s eyes. Steve was genuine and honest and wore his heart on his sleeve, everything that Bucky hadn’t been allowed to be and something he so rarely saw in others in his circle; he was almost addicted to it, the way he was so open that Bucky could read him like a novel. In Bucky’s gold and silver life of people who lied through their teeth and always had to look perfect, Steve was a splash of vibrant red and blues that made him feel dizzy and breathless. He was teaching Bucky how to see the world in a different way—in a better way, he thinks.

Steve gushes to Bucky about seeing original Rembrandts and Bucky fills him in on the color theory that Steve can’t quite see. He sits with Steve on benches as he bends over sketchbooks, sketching his favorite paintings and sculptures with a practiced hand. He shows Steve his favorite works, smiling to himself when Steve copies the names and artists down carefully in the front of his book in his impeccable handwriting. He gently pulls him towards the contemporary art and points at the back wall, currently vacant and awaiting several Grant Woods from the Art Institute of Chicago.

“One day? That’s where you’re gonna be.” Bucky says, his hand resting on Steve’s shoulder as he points.

Steve flushes, shaking his head. “As who? The guy cleaning the floors?”

Bucky’s hand tightens on his shoulder, though his tone stays light. “I’m serious, Steve. Right there, your stuff. Maybe a nice big painting of the most handsome person alive?” He waggles his eyebrows, grinning maniacally.

“Who, Rudolph Valentino?”

Bucky shoves him with a scoff, sending Steve into a fit of self-satisfied laughter that makes Bucky’s heart feel like it’s flying.

 

* * *

 

They’re both lying in their undershirts on Steve’s living room floor, panting and sweating after several rounds of Steve trying to get the upper hand in wrestling. It still hasn’t happened, but Steve’s positive he’s close to beating Bucky one of these days. Sarah has been gone at the hospital, pulling a double shift, and the two of them have been doing little besides staring at the ceiling all morning. Bucky props himself up on his elbows, brushing loose strands of hair that had fallen out of his pomade back into place. “Let’s go somewhere.”

Steve turns his head towards him, still huffing with exertion. “Like where?”

“Coney Island. C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

Steve groans, tilting his head back to the ceiling. “C’mon, Buck, you know we don’t have the money for that.” It still sends a little thrill through Bucky to know that his ruse is still working and that Steve still thinks of him as just another overly-confident poor kid from the boroughs.

“I got some extra money from fixing up a car last week. I’ll buy you a hot dog, it’ll be fun.” Bucky prods, now fully sitting up. “We’ll leave your ma a note in case she gets home early, she won’t mind. Or do you want to keep losing to me all day?” He smirks, poking Steve with his foot. “C’mon, Stevie. Up and at ‘em. I’ve decided for you.”

Steve knows that when Bucky’s like this, there is really little he can do to dissuade him from doing what he wants. So he hauls himself to his feet, sighing dramatically the whole way to hide the fact that he’s actually incredibly excited to go. He hadn’t been since he was five or six, back when his ma made enough money to go to places like that. He’s still worried that he’s taking Bucky’s money, but he knows well enough by now that bringing that up only makes Bucky put him in a headlock and grind his knuckles against the top of his head until Steve cries uncle.

They board the train, Bucky chewing on a toothpick and jangling his change in his pocket. Steve tells him he’s trying too hard to look older than he is, but he’s secretly jealous of the way that Bucky so effortlessly walks throughout the world. Steve has always been glanced over until he literally fights for attention, but Bucky turns head everywhere and has the confidence of a man that owns every room he’s in. Steve wants to feel a fraction of that, to go through life where people don’t forget he’s there or talk over him. But Bucky every time Bucky turns his attention on him, Steve feels like he’s on top of the world. Perhaps his attention alone is enough.

Steve blinks in the sudden sunlight as they exit the subway, the sea-salt wind off the bay lifting Steve’s hair. He rarely ventures his far south in Brooklyn, but he’s glad Bucky’s dragged him here—he’s always found the ocean quite peaceful, though his sketches never got the colors quite right. Today the bay is the same slate blue as Bucky’s eyes, reflecting the cloudy sky ahead that will mercifully keep Steve from frying to a crisp. They’re lucky it’s a Wednesday—Steve can actually see several feet in front of him and isn’t as worried he’s going to get trampled like he was when he was six and his mother brought him on a summer weekend. Bucky pays for their entrance fees and Steve tries his very hardest not to feel guilty about it—after all, Bucky said he had extra money and Bucky doesn’t lie to him. They stroll along the boardwalk in an easy silence, Steve’s attention drawn to the new rides and rollercoasters that he couldn’t ride when he was younger.

“Which one first?” Bucky asks, watching Steve gape up at something that definitely looks like they would die on.

Steve whips towards him like he had just snuck up on him, his eyes wide with the weight of making a decision. “I don’t even know where to start.” He admits, his eyes turning back to the ride.

“Well, why don’t we get some food then first? You didn’t eat breakfast.” He grabs Steve’s wrist and tugs him away from the Loop-O-Plane. Steve follows without complaint and Bucky pulls him into a line for hot dogs, still worrying the toothpick between his teeth. Steve glances around at the stand, his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline.

“Fifteen cents? Buck, you can’t. We’ll find somewhere else to go.” He tries walking away but Bucky’s already got a finger looped through his suspenders and he pulls Steve back.

“Listen, I got enough. Don’t you worry your little head about anything today, punk. Just enjoy yourself.” He ruffles his hair, much to Steve’s consternation, but it does shut him up. When they reach the counter, they order a hot dog apiece and find a relatively clean bench to sit down on. Steve eats slowly, relishing each bite while Bucky licks his fingers next to him, already having polished off his own hot dog. He leans back, his arms resting on the back of the bench as he watches the crowds walking by—Coney Island still got plenty of visitors in the third year of the Depression, much to outsiders’ surprise. Bucky figured everyone needed some kind of distraction from the hell that was unfolding all around them, even if it was in the form of fried foods and colorful mechanical rides.

Steve finishes his food, content to watch the people go by and to flick his gaze over to Bucky every so often. Steve isn’t completely sure why Bucky wanted to be friends with him—he can believe that someone like Bucky wouldn’t stand by while someone was getting beat up, but to actually befriend a scrappy thing like him still boggled his mind. They had been friends for only three months but Steve felt like he had known him forever, endlessly thankful for the easy way that they had fallen into a friendship. Perhaps it was because Bucky took everything about Steve—his frailness, his awkwardness around strangers, his spitfire attitude—all in stride like it was the most natural thing in the world. Bucky hadn’t just taken him under his wing, he had seen straight to Steve’s heart and decided that he wanted to stick around. He listened to Steve when he spoke, paid attention to what he liked and what he didn’t, was completely taken with Sarah. Bucky made Steve feel like a full, unbroken person. Bucky didn’t want to change him, he just wanted to be his friend, and Steve often felt overwhelmed thinking about it.

Bucky catches Steve staring at him, raising an eyebrow. “Enjoying the view?” He teases, knocking his knuckles into his shoulder blades lightly. Steve flushes, immediately looking back towards the boardwalk. “Just...thank you for taking me here. I know you probably have a lot of other friends and things you want to buy...” He trails off, waving his hand vaguely in front of him. “But thank you. For choosing me.”

Bucky’s heart clenches because Steve is so damn _heartfelt_ and genuine and every time he turns that soft smile on him he thinks he might explode out of his own skin. He instead buries a feeling he can’t quite understand underneath a scoff and a nudge, getting up and hauling Steve to his feet. “You’re dumber than I thought if you think I’d rather spend my time with any other punk in this city.”

Steve smiles, hearing the softness in Bucky’s voice loud and clear.

They end up riding a few of the rides, leaving Steve feeling dizzy and breathless and absolutely euphoric. It’s so rare that he gets to just let go and be a normal kid instead of the serious teenager that’s been shaped by the hard streets of Brooklyn. Bucky shows off his marksmanship at the shooting galleries, winning them a sizable sack of sugar for Sarah that leaves them both grinning like fools. The sun starts dipping in the sky and they both know they’ll have to get back before Sarah gets home from her shift, especially if they want to grab the subway back. Bucky lets Steve choose their last ride, following him as Steve hums and scans the boardwalk. He finally settles on one, pointing at it and tugging on Bucky’s sleeve. “That one. It’ll be perfect with the sunset.”

Bucky follows his gaze, his stomach dropping. Steve is pointing at the Wonder Wheel in all of its horrifyingly tall glory, rotating slowly and seeming to taunt Bucky. Bucky had been afraid of heights his entire life for reasons neither him nor his parents could explain, and could barely stand most of the rides at Coney Island. But he had never been on a ferris wheel, had told himself for years that he would rather die than find himself at the top of that monstrous contraption. But Steve was turning those big blue eyes on him and Bucky wondered how in the world Steve hadn’t batted his lashes all the way to the top of the city food chain by now. He just nods in response, shoving his shaking hands deep into his pockets and letting Steve lead the way to the line. If Steve notices that something’s off, he doesn’t mention it, far too busy looking up at the cars as they crest the top of the wheel.

Bucky tries focusing on something else—literally anything else—as they board, trying to count the number of bolts in the car before coming to the conclusion that there are far too few and that the car is going to come unhinged while they’re up there and they are definitely going to plummet to their deaths. The attendant closes the metal grate behind them, locking them in with a finality that Bucky hysterically wonders if this is what being in jail feels like. They start their ascent and Steve is completely enraptured by the view, his eyes fixed on the skyline. They’re almost to the top when he lets out a happy sigh, grinning wildly. “Buck, _look_.” The setting sun is hitting the skyscrapers at just the right angle, bathing the entire city in golden light that makes Steve’s heart skip a beat in his chest. He turns to see Bucky’s reaction but stops dead in his tracks, blinking at Bucky. His best friend is currently pressed up against the seat, white-knuckling the bars of the car and his jaw clenched so tight that Steve can see one of his veins jumping. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead and he’s breathing heavy, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Steve immediately moves back to him, his hands flitting around him uselessly.

“Buck, are you okay? Are you sick? Was it the hot dog?” Steve asks in rapid-fire succession, worriedly searching his face for signs of how he can help. Is this how his ma felt every time he was sick? Damn, he’d really have to be nicer the next time he came down with a cold.

Bucky just shakes his head, a short, jerky movement. Steve starts to panic, wondering if he’s going to have to take Bucky to the hospital if there’s something really wrong with him and how he’s gonna pay for it. He knows his ma keeps some money stashed in their mattress for emergencies—this constituted an emergency, didn’t it? But Bucky jerks his head again, sighing shakily. “Heights.” He grits out as explanation, his voice quavering in a way Steve’s never heard. Steve’s heart plummets all the way down a hundred feet beneath them, guilt crawling up his throat.

“Bucky, why didn’t you tell me?” He breathes, his shoulders relaxing. Bucky wasn’t dying, but Steve still felt like the biggest asshole in the world for making him get on this thing.

“You wanted to go.” Bucky says simply. Like there was nothing else he could do but follow Steve and cater to his whims, even if it meant he was going to have a heart attack at the top of the Wonder Wheel. Steve feels like someone’s squeezing his chest.

“Hey, Bucky, look at me. I’m right here. We’re okay, yeah?” He says gently, like how his ma does when he’s running a high fever and doesn’t know where he is. He rests a hand on Bucky’s knee, patting it. “Just keep lookin’ at me. I’m short enough that you can pretend like we’re on the ground.” He tries to make Bucky laugh; it almost works, Bucky’s jaw jumping and the edge of his lips quirking up just for a moment. He eventually looks over at Steve, his eyes still wild and panicked, but at least he’s listening to Steve.

“See? It’s okay. You’re okay.” Steve reassures him, patting his knee again. But then the car lurches forward as something briefly malfunctions, pitching them forward and rocking the car. A high whining sound escapes Bucky’s throat and he grabs Steve’s hand, gripping it painfully. They crest the top of the ferris wheel and start descending, their car rocking gently but remaining firmly attached to the track. Steve murmurs assurances the rest of the way down like he’s speaking to one of the spooked stray cats in his alley and lets Bucky grip his hand, even though it hurts and he can feel pins and needles in his fingertips.

When they get off at onto solid ground, Steve leads Bucky to a bench and makes him sit down for a while. They sit in silence, Steve surreptitiously rubbing his hand and glancing over every so often to make sure Bucky’s still with him. When Bucky stands back up, he’s flushed red all over and doesn’t say a word as he leads them back to the subway and Steve’s apartment. Steve doesn’t bring any of it up, only pulls Bucky into a hug when they reach his apartment door to let him know that it’s okay, that they’re okay.

Bucky presses the bag of sugar into his hands and turns, not wanting Steve to see the tears in his eyes.


	3. winter, 1933

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a MILLION apologies for how long this took. i severely underestimated how much work goes into moving countries and have been crazy busy for the past few weeks. thank you all for being so patient with me i love y'all.

Bucky draws swirls in the condensation forming on the car window as the Brooklyn Bridge rushes by him in a flurry of snow and cars. January had been uncharacteristically dry, but now that they were halfway through February, the snow wouldn’t stop coming. His mother had insisted that he take their car instead of “playing poor” by taking the streetcars and subways everywhere, even though Bucky could barely feel the cold through his thick wool coat and leather gloves. Still, it got him places faster and usually saved Steve from having to venture out in the cold if he came directly to him. But now Sarah was taking more night shifts and slept during the day, forcing them to find somewhere else to spend time together. Bucky was still in the process of trying to convince his mother that he could live by himself, but until then, he couldn’t entertain the possibility of Steve coming to his apartment. Steve never pressed, and for that Bucky was infinitely grateful.

Now that school had started back up, they were meeting at Frankie’s every Friday to plan their weekends. The adjustment from spending virtually every waking moment with each other during the summer to a handful of times a week since school started in September was jarring and it frustrated Bucky to no end, but there was little either of them could do about it. Steve couldn’t join his world of pressed uniforms and Latin classes and Bucky’s parents would never allow him to ditch his world-class private school education for Depression-era public schooling in one of New York’s poorest neighborhoods. Bucky was good at school, had a natural inclination for science and mechanics, but he felt like most of it was a waste; the people he hung around in school were more like acquaintances than friends, despite having known them since birth. They weren’t genuine and passionate like Steve, weren’t sharp and witty like Becca, weren’t caring and wise like Sarah. There was something missing with all of them and he was far more interested in planning out his next weekend with Steve than writing his essays.

They had spent Christmas and New Year’s on different continents, Steve in his cramped apartment while Bucky lounged on a chaise in Italy. He had told Steve that he was visiting family out of town for his Christmas break, slipping the Rogers’ landlord another thick wad of bills to ensure that the heat was kept on through the winter. But even Italy had felt empty without Steve, now that Bucky was constantly turning towards empty air to make a wisecrack or share a private joke. He could insert Steve so easily into the villa, perched on a stool in front of a canvas, painting the way the sunset fell over the hills in breathtaking detail. But he wasn’t there and Bucky was left to his own devices, listlessly reading novels and ignoring Becca’s ribbing about his dramatic sighing. Not even the new sailboat he was gifted for Christmas (aptly named the S.S. Buchanan) was enough to lift him out of his emotional malaise; sailing it this summer would only mean less time around Steve because of this lie he had constructed. No, not a lie. Just a carefully-composed omission of the truth.

At least they were back in the same country, even if their schedules made it nearly impossible to see each other during the week. He knew that he should be grateful that they got to spend any time together, but he had gotten quite used to getting exactly what he wanted and the world bending around his will. His friendship with Steve forced him to live outside of that expectation, brought him down to ground level and stripped away everything that he had been told was important about him. He had no family title, no generational wealth, no reputation that preceded him—he was just Bucky. He was allowed to be himself around Steve, allowed to be something other than what was expected of him his whole life; he could be a stupid teenager that scraped his knees and ate hot dogs too fast and laughed with his whole belly. He wasn’t ready to admit it, but he knew that his ruse was just as much for his benefit as it was for Steve’s.

He slides out of the car and lets his driver know that he’ll ring when he’s ready to be picked up, pushing the glass door to the parlor open. He takes a seat at the counter and orders two rootbeer floats, spacing out as he stirs his absentmindedly with his straw. He has to consciously resist the urge to twist in his seat and check the door every few minutes to see if Steve had wandered in with his permanently-red nose and watery eyes, shaking off the cold like it was a tangible thing. Winter wasn’t kind to people like Steve Rogers, but he had enough Irish stubbornness in him to refuse Bucky’s offer of a heavier jacket every time. He would just smile and wipe his nose on his sleeve, saying through stuffy sinuses that there were people on the streets, Buck. He would be okay. It always simultaneously melted Bucky’s heart and made him want to push Steve into the snow.

The ice cream had melted in both of their glasses by the time Bucky began to worry. Steve has a reputation for being chronically punctual and has never been late to their meetings here before, not even when the weather was bad. Before he can control it, the thought of Steve bloody and groaning in an alley somewhere from starting a fight he couldn’t finish flashes through his mind. Steve, alone, in the snow, hurt, without Bucky to defend him. Panic bolts through him like lightning as he pushes off of the counter and stumbles through the door. It hasn’t been nearly enough time for his driver to get back to their house to call him, and he isn’t willing to wait for him to cross Long Island again just to take him a few blocks to Brooklyn Heights. He shoves his hands deep in his pockets and turns his head down against the wind, walking fast in the direction of Steve’s apartment.

He checks every alley almost neurotically, tentatively calling out Steve’s name down the empty streets as desperation starts creeping up his neck. The logical part of his brain tells him that Steve is fine, that something just came up at home and he’ll get to the Rogers residence with prolific apologies from Steve and a subsequent cozy night in. But he can’t stop picturing snow piling on top of his passed-out frame without anyone stopping to help him. He realizes that he’s angry, his hands forming tight fists as he scours another alleyway for signs of his best friend. Stupid, reckless Steve and stupid, reckless Bucky for not teaching him how to fight better. He grunts in frustration as another alley comes up empty, burying mounting fear under anger and pushing through to the next one. But the streets and alleys are empty as the storm picks up, knocking some anxiety loose in Bucky’s chest. He had retraced the route that Steve would have taken to Frankie’s from his apartment and Bucky had found no sign of him anywhere, meaning that the only other place he could logically be would be his apartment. Maybe he had simply taken a nap after school and was exhausted enough from the long week that he had slept through their meeting time. Maybe Mrs. Johnston from down the hall had asked him to watch her dog again and Steve didn’t have the heart to say no.

He takes the stairs two at a time to Steve’s apartment, eager to cuff him on the ear for making him worry like that. He raps on the door, trying his best to knock snow off of his boots as he waits. No answer. He raises his fist again to knock right as the door opens a crack, Sarah’s pale face peering out at him. She immediately swings the door open, all but dragging Bucky into the living room into a crushing hug. Bucky lets out a small _oof_ at the impact, his arms going around her in an aborted move to return the hug. His heart picks up, dread creeping up the back of his neck without him fully realizing what’s going on.

“Thank God you’re here. We didn’t know how to get in contact with you—he just knows that you live in Dumbo, but…” Sarah’s words are rushing together and she pulls back, her hands on his upper arms as he looks him up and down. When their eyes meet, Bucky’s heart sinks at her terrified, wet eyes.

“What happened?” Bucky’s voice comes out strained and small, his throat already closing with fear.

“I, he- pneumonia.” She stammers out, wringing her hands. “He’s been sick since Tuesday and I-” Bucky stops hearing her, his ears ringing and vision tunneling. People died from pneumonia, even when they had more money than God. The Rogers barely had enough money to afford food every week, let alone good medical care. And if Sarah, a nurse who saw pneumonia patients day in and day out, was this afraid for Steve’s condition…

“Where is he?” A stupid question, Bucky knew, but he could barely think around the mounting panic in his chest that was clawing its way up his throat and threatening to choke him. “Can I see him?” He didn’t care that Steve was sick, that he could catch pneumonia from him and end up in the same situation; he _had_ to see him, to see the rise and fall of his chest and know that he was still alive and real. Sarah had already started shaking her head but stops short at Bucky’s face. She’s never seen him like this before, his eyes wild and panicked, not at all the calm and composed boy that’s been attached to the hip to her son. It’s been years since anyone else has cared about Steve like she does, notices the protective gleam in Bucky’s eyes when he looks at Steve. She cannot deny either of them this, she realizes, not when Steve is weakly coughing in the other room and Bucky looks ready to burn down the whole world to keep him safe.

She puts a hand on his arm, nodding. “I’m going to make him some soup.” She says softly, squeezing his arm before she lets her hand drop. She disappears into her tiny kitchen, busying herself with pots and pans. Bucky nearly trips over himself in his haste to get to Steve’s room, slipping inside and shutting the door behind him as quietly as he can.

“Steve?” His voice comes out hoarse and shakier than he would have liked. His best friend lies on the bed in front of him, his chest rising and falling in stuttering wheezes that shake Bucky Barnes to his absolute core. His bangs are plastered to his forehead with sweat and his cheeks are flushed in the way that they only get when they’ve been practicing boxing moves for hours on end. Steve cracks his eyes open, his eyes glassy and confused as he takes Bucky in.

“Buck?” Steve’s voice is strained, but it’s there and all the air rushes out of Bucky’s lungs as he kneels beside him.

“You were late.” It’s the only thing Bucky can think to say, his voice cracking as he makes a weak attempt at a smile. Steve returns it, turning his head to look at him.

“I wanted to tell ya. I just...didn’t know how.” He coughs again, his upper body rising off the bed with the force of it. He can hear the rattle in his chest, can see the way Steve’s face pinches with the pain of it. Without even realizing what he’s doing, Bucky has his hand on Steve’s back, rubbing soothing circles as Steve rides out the worst of the coughing attack and murmuring nonsense platitudes. It was how his mother took care of him when he and Becca were sick, just with the added convenience of the best doctors money could buy and enough medicine to treat an army.

Steve looks at him apologetically as he comes down from the fit, relaxing back into the bed and doing his best to avoid Bucky’s eyes. Bucky knows he should feel ashamed too; this is decidedly _not_ how pals take care of each other. But he can’t seem to feel anything beyond overwhelming panic and can’t think straight around the need to do everything in his power to help the situation. He’s pulling up a chair to Steve’s bedside before he even registers what he’s doing, eyeing the strips of cloth and a bowl of water that Sarah must have left on his nightstand.

“Are you hot or cold right now?” He asks, trying to stave off the mounting panic. “Are you thirsty?”

Steve shakes his head, swallowing with difficulty. “‘ve just got a fever, Buck. I’m okay.” It breaks Bucky’s heart all over again because of course Steve would say he’s okay when he’s got pneumonia in the dead of winter and Bucky can hear the death rattle in his chest clear as a church bell. Steve doesn’t want Bucky to worry about him—ever the martyr—but Bucky refuses to take any of his suffering-in-silence bullshit this time around. He figures Steve’s hot if the piles of tangled blankets strewn on the floor are any indication and dips a strip of cloth into the bowl of water.

“Now isn’t the time to play the hero, punk.” He chides gently, draping the cloth over Steve’s forehead. “Have y’seen a doctor?” He already knows the answer to that, but he wants to keep Steve awake and talking to him until Sarah finishes with the soup.

“Ma’s trying to get someone from the hospital to come by when they’re free.” Steve’s eyes are half-lidded as they turn back to Bucky, smiling gratefully. “But she’s been takin’ good care of me.”

“You need medicine though, Steve.” Bucky resists the urge to smooth back Steve’s bangs, some part of his brain screaming at him that he is being far too maternal for what the situation calls for. “I’ll ring for a doctor. You should have seen someone days ago.” He’s already standing up like he’s about to go make a call even though he knows the Rogers don’t have a phone. He’ll walk all the way to fucking Manhattan if he needs to just to find a phone he can use. But Steve’s hand grabs his wrist before he can go any further, holding him there with all the strength of a kitten.

“Don’t. I’m not going to have you go into debt just because I stayed out in the cold for too long.” Steve’s eyes are shining and full of worry and it almost breaks Bucky clean in two. Steve is willing to possibly _die_ because of a ruse that Bucky trapped himself in. He can fix this with a wave of a hand and such a miniscule amount of money that he would never think twice about it, but he’s boxed himself in with a lie he started just so he could have a shot at a genuine friendship. The irony isn’t lost on him. He knows he should just come clean, tell Steve the truth and call the best doctor money can by to get here as fast as possible. But he also knows that Steve’s in a delicate state right now and doesn’t want his body to work overtime on anything other than getting better. Telling him now would only upset him, which is something he’s pretty sure sick people shouldn’t have to deal with. He doesn’t want to hurt Steve, but he also doesn’t want to see Steve any sicker than he already is.

The inner turmoil must be clear on his face because Steve squeezes his wrist, looking up at him curiously. “What’s wrong?” It makes Bucky want to laugh hysterically, because what _isn’t_ wrong? His best friend is sicker than a dog in front of him and Bucky doesn’t have nearly enough medical knowledge to understand if he’s getting better or getting much worse. He so desperately wants to leave and call a doctor or take Steve to the hospital, but he knows it would fracture his relationship with Steve and Sarah both, effectively ostracizing him from the first real friends he had and maybe causing undue stress on Steve in the process. But Steve, always the selfless one, wants to know if there’s something wrong with _Bucky_.

“Nothin’, Stevie. I’m just real worried about you.” He sinks back into the chair, the spot where Steve’s fingers encircled his wrist burning like a brand. Steve smiles weakly, waving a hand.

“What, I look that bad?” Steve teases, his eyes closing briefly as he fights back another coughing fit.

“Your mug couldn’t get much worse.” There’s no heat behind Bucky’s words, just a broken desperation for a semblance of normalcy. He hates the way Steve shivers and how his eyes glass over. He pulls the blankets off the floor, shakes them out, and lays them over Steve’s prone body. He’s gone quiet again, his eyes fighting to stay open as he blinks at Bucky. Bucky pulls the compress off and presses the back of his hand to Steve’s forehead, frowning at the way his skin burns.

“You don’t have to do that.” Steve mumbles quietly, his eyes closed. “You’re mother henning.” The little bit of frustrated indignation at Bucky’s behavior is familiar enough to let Bucky breathe a little easier, even as he feels how hot Steve’s skin feels against his.

“I guess your ma does enough of that for the two of us, huh.” Bucky dips the compress back into the water and drapes it over Steve’s forehead, trying to steady his breathing. “Speaking of, she’s making you soup. Y’think you’ve got the appetite for some?”

Steve makes a small noncommittal noise that Bucky decides to interpret as a yes, drifting off again. “Hey, don’t fall asleep until you eat, okay? Tell me a story.”

Steve groans a little in protest, but doesn’t ignore Bucky. “About what?”

“How about the time you almost burnt down the church on Christmas? You never told me that one.” And he must be extremely lucky or Steve must be sicker than he thought, because Steve doesn’t turn the color of a tomato and clam up immediately like he did the first time Sarah brought it up. He just sighs and turns his head towards Bucky, his eyebrows furrowed as he tries to find where to start.

“I was four, I think, and it was the first Christmas Eve Mass I actually remember. We had more money back then so I had a little coat, the whole get-up. My ma’s dress...it was green, I’m pretty sure. We had those little candles, for Silent Night?” He notices the confused, almost helpless look on Bucky’s face and shakes his head. “Right, not a cradle Catholic. They pass out these little candles and turn off all the lights, so it’s just the candlelight. And we all sing Silent Night, you know…” He drifts off, humming the tune half-heartedly. “Except I was four, y’know? And my ma wasn’t watchin’ me all that good, cause I ended up holding the candlelight against a hymnal. And next thing I know the pew is starting on fire and my mom is freakin’ out and I was and carrying on like no other. So we had to evacuate the whole place and my ma keeps turning me this way ‘n that to make sure I haven’t burned myself. I was fine, but we had to end Christmas Mass early. I think only half a pew burned ‘fore they put it out.” He huffs out a weak but indignant sigh. “I didn’t _really_ come close to burning anything down. Ma’s just dramatic.”

Bucky listens to the rise and fall of Steve’s voice more than he listens to the words behind them, watching him intensely. His heart hasn’t stopped hammering in his chest since from when he first realized that Steve wasn’t going to show up at Frankie’s and he hasn’t felt fear like this since Becca came down with scarlet fever when she was six. But they had consistent heating and access to the best doctors of New York City, and Becca didn’t have every medical problem under the sun. He was too afraid to ask Sarah how bad it really was, but the fact that she had presumably stayed home from work to take care of Steve was proof enough.

Sarah knocked on the door, pulling them both out of their reveries. She slid into the room with a tray of two bowls of soup and bread crusts, setting it down at the foot of Steve’s bed. “There’s more, if you two are still hungry.” She tries to keep her voice light, but Bucky can see the worry etched across her face. They stare at each other for a few beats, trying to have a silent conversation in a language neither of them really speak.

“I’ll make sure he eats. You get some rest, Sarah.” Bucky finally breaks the silence, moving to pick up Steve’s bowl of soup. Sarah slumps ever so slightly against the doorframe, relief and gratefulness shining in her eyes. “I’ll holler if he needs somethin’. Thanks for the soup.” It’s still hard to keep the _ma’am_ out of his voice since he’s never addressed anyone but his mother as anything but; however, he doesn’t want another accusatory finger pointed in his face and a lecture about how she is _not_ old enough for young boys like him to be calling her ma’am. She slips out of the room and shuts the door behind her, leaving the two of them alone once more.

“Steve, c’mon. Dinner time.” Bucky scoots his chair closer to Steve’s bed, blowing on the soup to make sure it isn’t too hot. “I promise you can sleep after this, but you gotta eat.”

Steve’s eyes, which had closed in-between him finishing his story and Sarah leaving, fluttered back open in confusion and annoyance. “Bucky, I jus’ wanna sleep.” He protests, turning away from Bucky and pulling the covers closer to him. Bucky pushes down his irritation at Steve’s stubbornness and breathes through his nose, nudging Steve’s shoulder with the spoon. “You want me to go get some dame to feed you soup instead, eh? One of those nurse gals that hang out by Frankie’s? One of ‘em was lookin’ at you last week—what’s her name? Charity?”

“Bucky, _stop_.” Steve’s flush has nothing to do with his fever as he tries to cover his face with the threadbare blankets.

“Yeah, you’re a real charity case, pal. Sorry, guess you’re stuck with me as a nurse. Want me to go put on a hat and talk all sweet?” Bucky doesn’t completely understand why he’s frustrated all of a sudden, like the mere thought of Steve wanting someone else here instead of him has turned him aggressive. He knows it’s stupid and knows that he’s the one that brought it up in the first place and that Steve is mortified right now, but he still can’t shake the frustration that creeps up his ankle and threatens to tug him under.

“Just gimme the damn soup.” Steve finally huffs, his irritation with Bucky’s teasing winning out over his desire to sleep. “You’re a horrible nurse. They don’t nag me this much.”

“Your ma does, I know that for sure.” Bucky tries not to look too chided as watches Steve try and prop himself up against the headboard. “D’you need help?”

“I know how to eat soup.” Steve huffs, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow from the exertion. Bucky hands him the bowl carefully before taking his own, his eyes trained on the bowl as they eat in silence. He doesn’t want to think about the wave of aggravation, about the fact that Steve could be dying, about how he can’t do a damn thing about any of it right now.  
“Thank you.” Steve says quietly, pulling Bucky out of his own spiraling thoughts. “For coming.”

Bucky glances up at him, his cheeks still bright red and his skin sallow. All Bucky wants to do is to keep Steve safe and he doesn’t feel like he can even do that much.

“Can’t get rid of me that easily, punk.” Bucky’s lips twist up, trying for a smile but realizing that it comes out all wry and sharp. “You want more?”

Steve shakes his head and they fall back into silence, the scraping of spoons against bowls and the soft wheeze of Steve’s lungs the only sounds in the small room. He takes Steve’s bowl from him silently after he finishes, stacking them together and setting them on the nightstand. He redampens the cloth on Steve’s forehead without prompting, trying not to let the fear show in his eyes. They don’t speak as Steve settles back down, his eyes already drooping as he turns over and tucks a blanket under his chin.

Bucky clicks off the lamp on the nightstand, watching Steve toss and turn until he’s comfortable enough to start drifting off into fitful sleep. He’s lifting the bowls off of the nightstand and is about to head out to the kitchen when he hears a small, sleep-addled voice from underneath the covers.

“Love you, Buck.”

Bucky swears his heart expands a hundredfold, ignoring the part of his mind that tells him that it’s just because Steve has a fever and he’s half-asleep. He definitely ignores the part of him that makes his heart go into overdrive for reasons entirely unknown. Steve cares about him and thinks he’s worthy of being his best friend—that’s all that matters to Bucky right now in the way that everything that happens at fifteen is completely life-altering.

“Love you too, Stevie.” He murmurs back, slipping out of his room with a soft click of the door.

He washes the bowls in the kitchen sink and checks on Sarah, fast asleep in her room with the door wide open. As quietly as he can, he slips out of the apartment and down to the first floor of the apartment, where the entire building shares one telephone. He thanks whatever God the Rogers pray to that no one’s using it and dials his apartment number, letting his live-in butler know that he’s going to be staying with Steve for the weekend. The next call he places is to the hospital that Sarah works at—it only takes him a few transfers and a name drop to get him connected to the chief physician on staff. They promise to free up the schedule of one of their doctors to make a “complimentary” visit to the Rogers household that next day and Bucky promises to compensate the hospital and the doctor handsomely for their time.

He tries to shut the door as quietly as possible when he returns to the apartment, but Sarah wakes up, scrubbing the side of her face with a hand. “Bucky?” She mumbles, still groggy with sleep. “Where’d you go?”

“Had to call my folks and tell them I’m gonna be here for the weekend. If that’s okay, I mean. I know you need to work and want someone to watch Steve-” He wrings his hands, suddenly realizing how stupid he sounds. He should have asked Sarah before, not assumed that he was going to step in and take care of Steve while she went off to work.

She stops him before he can spiral in his own head any further, pulling him into a hug and kissing the top of his head. “You’re a good kid, Bucky. Steve’s so lucky to have you.” Her voice is shaky and Bucky pretends not to hear the tears in her voice.

“Nah, I’m lucky to have _him_.” He replies quietly, letting himself melt into her hug. “Is it okay? If I stay? I promise I don’t need much, I just don’t want you to lose your job. I’m not a nurse or nothing, but I can take care of him when you’re sleeping or at work.” He’s already made up his mind to not go back to school until Steve’s fully recovered; he’s at the top of his class anyway and knows they won’t punish him for fear of his parents pulling him out. Besides, keeping vigil by Steve’s bedside would give him plenty of time to do his schoolwork.

“Of course you can stay. You know you’re always welcome here. This is your home just as much as it is his.” She reassures him, squeezing him one last time before stepping back. “You go get some rest, though. I can watch him tonight. I’ll wake you up when I go to work, yeah? Let me get you set up on the couch.” She’s already in motion, grabbing their spare linens from the top kitchen cabinet and making a makeshift bed for him. He’s struck, not for the first time and definitely not the last, of how easily and freely the Rogers give their love, as if they are convinced that the fire hose of affection they so freely turn on anyone who will have it will never run dry. Ironic, then, how they had so little and gave it away so easily, while the people in Bucky’s life were by-and-large hamfisted and paranoid about generosity.

“Thanks, Sarah.” Bucky lies down on the couch, pulling a quilt up to his chin.

“No, Bucky. Thank _you_.” She leans down and kisses his forehead gently before turning out the lights in the living room, disappearing into Steve’s room.

Bucky prefers to believe that his eyes watering are a result of the dusty quilt.

 

* * *

 

 

Sarah’s virtually walking out the door for her shift in the morning when there’s a tentative knock at the door. Bucky jumps up from his chair beside Steve’s bed to open it, a nervous-looking doctor brushing snow off of his jacket on the other side.

“Oh, are you– I’m here to see Steven.” He stammers, looking right past Bucky into the cramped apartment. Sarah’s behind Bucky in an instant, nudging him behind her as she hops on one foot to get her shoe on.

“Richard? What are you doing here?” She gapes at him, straightening up. “Did something happen at the hospital?”

Richard shakes his head, holding up his medical bag as explanation. “You asked the staff to come ‘round if we were free to take a look at your kid. I got rescheduled, I guess, since I came in and they told me I had the morning off.” He shrugs, looking a little confused himself. Bucky tries to hide his relief, instead doubling back towards Steve’s room to go wake him. He had slept fitfully all night according to Sarah, and his fever seemed to be getting worse. Bucky felt horrible waking him up, but he needed to be at least somewhat conscious for his examination.

“Hey, Stevie, wake up. The doctor’s here.” He whispered, jostling Steve’s shoulder as gently as he could. Steve groaned in response, a weak thing that cut straight to his heart. “C’mon, it’ll only be a little bit and you can go back to bed.”

Richard and Sarah came through the door, whispering to each other before they caught Bucky staring at them. “He’s awake, just out of it.” He says quietly, stepping back to give them both room to work. Richard nods and sets down his medical bag on Steve’s bed, unloading some of his equipment and falling into a silent routine with Sarah assisting from the other side. He checks Steve’s lungs and heart rate, his temperature, plenty of other things that Bucky doesn’t even begin to understand. Steve listlessly responds to the poking and prodding, barely keeping his eyes open and making Bucky more nervous by the passing minute. The horrible realization of what would have happened if a doctor had never came, if Bucky had never investigated Steve’s disappearance further, if he had never _met_ Steve in the first place keeps crashing over him like waves. He can’t seem to get a full inhalation before panic overtakes him, forcing the air out of his lungs; he just hopes that no one else notices and that this doctor can help.

Richard eventually takes off his stethoscope, sighing as he looks at Steve. “You were right, Sarah. It’s pneumonia. He needs to get on sulfonamide immediately. I’ve brought all the things for an IV for his fluids, but do you think you can manage the sulfa drugs?”

Sarah nods and Bucky’s stomach turns at the thought of a huge needle going into Steve’s frail arm. “How much is it going to cost?” She asks quietly, her mind already trying to work the numbers of how many overtime shifts she’ll need to pick up in order to cover the whole thing.

“I’ll cover it. Just give it to him. Just make him get better.” He tries to slide the authoritative voice he always uses at home with servants into his voice, but he can’t conceal all of the shakiness and fear that goes with it. He’ll figure out an excuse as to why he can spare the money, would rather blow his whole fucking cover than watch Steve fade in and out of consciousness like this.

Sarah already has an argument on her lips, but Richard speaks before she can get anything out. “I’m not going to charge you, Sarah. You’ve done more for our wing than all the other damn nurses put together. Let us take care of you this one time.” He adds gently, already hunting in his bag for the needles and fluids bag. “I didn’t bring a stand for the IV, you’ll have to borrow one from the ward or just rig it up to a lamp or something. As long as he doesn’t move around too much and he’s getting the fluids and drugs, it’ll be fine.”

“Will he be okay?” Bucky breaks in again, reminding the adults once again that he’s still in the room.

Richard looks from Sarah to Steve to Bucky, shifting on his feet. “It’s too early to tell. The next 48 hours are critical. His fever’s incredibly high and his lungs don’t sound good. See how he responds to the medicine and keep him as hydrated as you can, food’s good too if he can handle it. I’m sorry, I can’t tell you more than that.”

Bucky sits down hard on the edge of Steve’s bed, staring at the peeling wood flooring. He didn’t know what he had been expecting—some sort of miracle? That the doctor would tell him that everything was going to be A-OK just because he called him here? His cheeks burned with shame and unshed tears, hating himself for how emotional he was allowing himself to look, even if it was just Sarah and a doctor he’d never see again and not the elite of New York City. A hand on his shoulder startled him, jumping a little as Sarah bent down to give him another kiss on the top of his head. “I’m going to go with Dr. Anderson to the hospital for work, okay? I’ll set Steve up with the IV—you won’t have to do anything but make sure he doesn’t pull it out. I’ll be home before he needs another dose.”

Bucky just nodded, his head still swirling with the possibility of Steve not making it through this, even after he had pulled in his money and power to make him get better. Even that wasn’t enough. The thin veneer of innocence that still held him began splintering once more, his entire built conception of the world crumbling around him once more in the face of Steve Rogers. He can’t watch as Sarah slides the needle into Steve’s vein, all-too easy to find against his porcelain skin, but he does hear the whimper of pain that escapes his lips. It feels like a hot knife going through his chest and he wishes, not for the first time, that it was him that had this damn disease. He would have pneumonia a thousand times over if it meant that he didn’t have to watch Steve moan and cry out in his sleep like this.

When Sarah leaves with Richard, Bucky takes his vigil at Steve’s bedside, folding his hands together and leaning forward. He’s never done this before, but he figures now is a good a time as any to start. He doesn’t even think he believes in this shit, but it can’t hurt and Steve needs whatever he can give him right now.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena…”

 

* * *

 

Steve’s fever doesn’t break that night, nor the next. Bucky calls off school and goes back to his apartment for a change of clothes at Sarah’s insistence. Right before he heads out the door, he grabs his violin case and a stack of blank sheet music. After Sarah leaves for her shift on Monday, he checks Steve’s IV about eighteen times to make sure that everything is still okay. Steve thrashed around when he slept when the fever is at its worst and made Bucky sick with worry that he was going to pull out his IV on accident; he had no idea how the hell to insert a needle into someone’s arm and the very thought of having to do that made Bucky nauseous and sweaty all over. Steve, thankfully, was sleeping relatively peacefully now, though his fever hadn’t gone enough to let Bucky or Sarah breathe.

During his more lucid moments, Bucky told Steve stories about his childhood, about Becca, about the stray cat he had seen out on Steve’s fire escape the day before. He told him about Venice and London and Paris like he had read about them only in books, gave his best retellings of the books he had been assigned to read in school. Sometimes Steve would tell him stories of his own, but he was usually too tired and too weak to say much. But he smiled at Bucky, and Bucky would keep talking forever if it meant that he could get that smile.

When Steve slept, Bucky still talked to him, all hushed tones and soft syllables that Steve wouldn’t be able to pick up if he were awake anyway. He told him about how he wanted to take him to the Hamptons, to lay out on his new sailing boat with him and go explore the little islands that dotted the coast. He wanted to watch the sun freckle their shoulders and noses and drink fresh-squeezed lemonade until Steve was sick of sugar. He told Steve how he wanted to show him the sketch he had pinned over his bed at home, to show him how the balcony opened up to show the skyline in all of its glory at night. He whispered about how he would take Steve to art shows and gallery openings, how he could go to the Met whenever he wanted and for however long he wanted. He talked about how he would get him the best art teachers in the damn city, about how they could move to Paris after school and they could live as bachelors in the City of Love, Bucky making music and Steve making art. He spoke of all the dreams that could never come true as if speaking them into existence would make him want it less.

It didn’t work.

It did, however, make him run out of fantastical ideas of the two of them touring Europe together while Sarah relaxed on a beach somewhere in Belize for a well-deserved vacation. Rather than staring the peeling paint on the walls out of lack of things to do, he picked up his violin and made his way over to Steve’s window, his eyes trained on the street below as he warmed up. He drew his bow over the strings, closing his eyes as he let muscle memory take over. He started in on a piece, letting his body move and his mind clear—it was one of the few things that drove away the panic, the guilt, the fear. He doesn’t notice that Steve’s woken up, doesn’t see the way that Steve is looking at him with soft eyes and a softer smile, doesn’t see the sweat soaking the bed. It isn’t until he’s finished the piece that he realizes Steve is awake, jumping at his voice.

“What’s that one?” Steve asks, his voice raspy from disuse.

“It’s just something I’ve been working on.” Bucky smiles, letting his violin drop from his chin as he makes his way back over to Steve. “For years now, actually, but...well, it’s coming along.” He sets his violin back in its case, picking up his pencil and marking in another notation on one of his sheets before sitting in the chair. “How are you feeling, I– oh hell, Steve. What happened?” He asks, noticing the way that Steve’s nearly sweat through his bedclothes and the sheets beneath him.

“I think the fever broke.” Bucky notices how his eyes are clearer than they’ve been since he’s seen him, his normal coloring returning to his cheeks. Without thinking, he presses a hand to the back of Steve’s forehead, grinning madly when he doesn’t feel the now-familiar burn. “You did it. You fucking did it.” He breathes, looking at Steve like he’s a lottery prize. “You’re gonna be okay, Stevie.”

Steve notices the shine in Bucky’s eyes but doesn’t acknowledge it, instead trying to shift so he can sit up. “Can I take this out of my arm?” He asks, holding up his arm experimentally and grimacing at the bruise that’s already formed at the injection site.

“Not until your ma says it’s okay. I think you can get the rest of your meds through shots, though, so you probably won’t have to keep it in once you’re feeling better.” Bucky’s words run together, his excitement getting the better of him at the prospect of Steve actually improving. “Do you want anything? Are you hungry? Let me get you a glass of water, you must be thirsty.” He moves to stand, but Steve’s hand catches his wrist, weak but steady.

“Just sit with me for a minute?” Steve asks, smiling lopsidedly.

Bucky sits back down, hard.

“I don’t remember a lot of what you said when I was sick, but I’m glad you stayed. You didn’t have to.” They both know it’s bullshit, that Sarah would have lost her job if she had stayed home for longer with Steve and that Steve needed someone to keep an eye on him. Bucky suspects that Steve admitting that he needs help would actually kill him. So he lets it slide and instead shakes his head, focusing on the fact that Steve is almost surprised that he stayed.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily, punk. Of course I stayed. You’dve done the same for me.” Bucky shrugs, knowing that Steve wouldn’t ever know if Bucky was sick and wouldn’t have the first clue of where to start looking for him.

“Still, thank you.” Steve’s wearing his heart on his whole damn sleeve again and it makes Bucky want to burst out of his skin; he had grown up for so long with everyone around him hiding their emotions, good and bad, and he still almost can’t process the way Steve’s whole self is open for anyone to read. It’s refreshing, but it’s also overwhelming and makes Bucky feel like he can’t breathe sometimes.

“Don’t mention it. I’ll make you pay me back someday—how does letting me win at skipping rocks next time we go to Central Park sound?” Bucky gives him his best cocky smile, trying to hide just how relieved and scared he still is about Steve’s condition. If he buries it under jokes and bright smiles, maybe Steve won’t remember how desperately he begged him to be okay when he was sleeping with a fever of over 103.

Steve just rolls his eyes in response, unable to keep the smile off of his face. “I can think about it.”

“Careful, Rogers, you might pull a muscle doing that.”

He feels like flying when Steve wacks him across the chest with his IV-free arm, his disgruntled expression familiar and freeing.

When Bucky finally leaves after Sarah gets home with a stern command to actually go to school the next day, he sends a silent thank you to whoever’s listening up there for saving Steve. Bucky still doesn’t think he believes, knows that he’s gonna go to hell if Steve ends up being right about all of this. But he would burn a thousand times in the fires of eternal damnation or whatever if it meant that Steve would be okay. If the Virgin Mary or God or whoever was up there wanted to take out their righteous anger on someone, he’d volunteer himself to save Steve from pain without question. The realization should shock him, he knows, but it feels like coming home to a familiar truth.

Both boys sleep soundly for the first time in a week, dreaming of warmer days and sun-kissed cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song that bucky composed and was playing in steve's room is vocalise, op. 34, no. 14 by sergei rachmaninoff and nikolaj znaider


	4. summer, 1933-1934

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll be gone on vacation for the next two weeks, so this is me trying to make up for it with a quick update and long chapter. also: i know that howard's father sold fruit and howard built his own empire, but for the sake of the story i've taken some artistic liberties with, well, pretty much everyone.
> 
> EVERYONE! LOOK AT NICK'S DRAWING OF THE BARNES SIBLINGS SUNBATHING! I'M YELLING! GO SUPPORT [NICK](http://twitter.com/616buck) ON TWITTER.

 

**_the barnes siblings - summer 1933 ([nick](https://twitter.com/616buck/status/1173453979222589441/photo/1))_ **

 

“You want to _what_?” Howard looks up at Bucky incredulously from where he’d been tinkering, almost hitting his head on the sheet metal hanging above him.

“Work for you. Well, your old man, I guess.” Bucky shrugs, not quite meeting Howard’s eye as he glances around the shop. He had known Howard Stark since before he could remember—Bucky’s mother had grown up with Howard’s father and had been one of the elder Stark’s first investors when he started Stark Industries. Now it was a multi-billion dollar empire that was at the cutting edge of automation. Bucky and Howard were born mere months apart and had grown up together, always attending separate schools but entertaining each other during every drawn-out party and event. Howard had shown an affinity for working with his machines early on and had started inventing before either of them had hit puberty. He was one of the few friends that Bucky felt like he could be honest with, one of the very few that actually called him Bucky rather than James. Howard let Bucky sit in his shop for hours and watch him work, had taught him everything he knew about fixing cars and any other machine that could break on him, and Bucky dreamt up with fantastical inventions for him in return. It was, if nothing else, far more interesting than his science classes.

“Why would you want to _work_?” Howard asks, disgusted even as he holds a wrench in one hand. “If you wanted more time with me, Bucky dear, all you had to do was ask.” He bats his eyelashes at Bucky, yelping and ducking as Bucky chucks a stray bolt at his head.

“Ma said I gotta start doing something if I wanna keep my own apartment. Plus…” He hesitates, all too aware of the fact that he hasn’t told anyone about his double life quite yet. “I’ve kind of backed myself into a corner.”

That gets Howard’s full attention as he straightens up, setting his tools down. “Did the golden child actually slip up?”

Bucky refuses to let his cheeks color, shaking his head and trying to find a more comfortable position leaning against a worktable. “I have...well, I made a friend. Saved him from being beaten half to death in an alley and, well, I just never told him about my family.” Bucky rubs the back of his neck, hating how stupid it all sounds now that he’s actually spoken it out loud. “He doesn’t know about the money, the houses, nothing. He thinks I’m just a kid from Dumbo who has a strained relationship with his parents.”

Howard just stares at him, his left eyebrow slowly creeping towards his hairline. “You picked up a damn stray, Barnes? Jesus, does this kid live under a rock? He doesn’t know _anything_?”

Bucky just shrugs again, suddenly very interested in a piece of sheet metal across the room. “He isn’t a stray, he’s just...his name’s Steve. It’s nice to have friends that don’t want you for your money, y’know?”

“Right, because I put up with your dramatic ass because I’m looking for you to buy me something pretty.” Howard remarks dryly, picking up his tools again and going back to screwing in something Bucky could only vaguely make out.

“Howard, that’s not what I meant– ” Bucky tries to start, but Howard waves him off before he can finish.

“Yeah, yeah, punk. You can make it up to me by getting out of here in the next five minutes. I’ve got flight lessons and I don’t want you touching my shit when I’m gone. Last time that happened you nearly blew my entire workshop to kingdom come.” Howard says distractedly, his tongue peeking out of the corner of his lips as he works.

“You should stop leaving volatile chemicals around for me to mess with, then.” Bucky shoots back, crossing his arms over his chest as they fall into more familiar territory. “Will you at least think about it? You know I don’t mind getting my hands dirty—just a little something on the side. ‘Sides, I think your pops would agree that I could use a little manual labor.”

Howard just rolls his eyes, not even deigning to look at Bucky. “Yeah you should be ashamed of yourself, letting yourself go like that—no muscles or nothing. Chicken shit arms, Pa’d say.”

Bucky frowns, flexing in his warped reflection off of a sheet of aluminum. “You don’t have to be bitter that I bulked up this year. You could look like this if you got out of the shop once in a while. C’mon, come by the Hamptons for the Fourth. My ma’d be thrilled to have you. I’ll take you out on my new boat and go camping like when we were kids. Somebody’s gotta drag you out of here.”

Howard sighs, knocking down his protective glasses over his eyes and picking up a welding torch. “I’m in Chicago for the summer—World’s Fair. I think I’m gonna try and bring the self-parking car prototype. I’ll bring you back something nice if you’re lucky.” He turned to Bucky, his wink lost behind his protective goggles as he turned on the welder. “I’ll talk to my dad, so don’t say I never did anything for you. For the record though, I think this is a horrible idea.” He shouts over the sound of the gas flame, turning back to his work.

 

* * *

 

Howard was right. This was definitely a bad idea.

Bucky had never had to work a day in his life and, as a result, had never done so. He was in shape, but that was entirely to do with the fact that he had an endless barrage of personal trainers and coaches that he could call on at any time rather than out of necessity. He liked working with his hands and had learned a lot under Howard’s tutelage growing up, but he was entirely unprepared for _actual_ work.

As expected, Howard’s father had been completely baffled by Bucky’s request, but granted him a job nonetheless. Bucky’s own father was pleased that he was interested in work as he was a self-starter back in the day, but was more concerned that the “ideals of the Great Depression” were poisoning the minds of the youth and making them think that they needed to earn their share. Howard was already in charge of a sizeable chunk of the mechanics at Stark Industries and Bucky was placed under his division, doing the basic grunt work that Bucky never thought people actually _had_ to do. After all, wasn’t Stark Industries all about automation? Where the hell was that when Bucky’s hands were rough and calloused from screwing in the same five bolts over and over again? He was going to need to have a long talk with Henry Ford about his horrible assembly lines.

He barely got to spend any time with Howard, their interactions limited to Howard’s smug mug grinning down at him from the catwalks as he surveyed his factory. Sometimes he would get a wolf whistle or a call of, “Careful you don’t break a nail, Barnes!”, but it was more often than not the maddening smirks that made Bucky want to snap his wrench in half. But he supposed it met the criteria of “honest work” for Steve, which was all that mattered. The dollars Howard threw at him as a salary was never necessary, but helped provide a front for why he moved into his own apartment, now in Brooklyn and closer to both his school and Steve. He felt a million times better now that Steve could come over, knew where he lived, could get in contact with him if anything bad happened again. The aftershocks of the pneumonia were still rocking Bucky’s world, even though Steve went on acting as if it was just another Tuesday. Which, he supposed it was for someone like Steve, who got sick nearly every winter and whose every common cold could turn deadly in an instant.

Still, even as he came home exhausted and sore all over from standing on his feet for hours, he was strangely content. He felt like he could relax into his friendship with Steve without constantly trying to juggle being able to afford things without having a job; he could justify how he could live alone and why he occasionally brought cuts of meat home for the Rogers. Howard didn’t make him work much, but it did mean that he had even less hours to spend with Steve now that school was out for the summer. Still, he had planned to pack the summer with more than enough to keep them occupied: he wanted to teach Steve how to swim, take him to the top of the new Empire State Building, maybe got to the Met a few more times if Steve let him “pay” for it. He still had to spend a few weeks at home to satisfy his family, including a two week vacation to Mykonos that Bucky had already started crafting an elaborate cover story for.

It wasn’t the summer that Bucky had whisper-promised to Steve in the throes of his fever, but it was as close to a summer in the Hamptons as two (supposedly) broke boys could get. Bucky learned very quickly that Steve burnt incredibly easily and turned an impressive shade of red that he didn’t even get when he would tease Steve about the girls that hung out in the park nearby. Steve learned that Bucky had a group of freckles that looked almost exactly like the Aquarius constellation on his right shoulder, but he would never admit to having looked that closely or that long to make out. Bucky taught Steve basic boating knots—knowledge supposedly gained at his time hanging around the docks when he was out of a steady job—and Steve taught Bucky how to properly draw a still-life. When it got too hot, they stripped down to their underclothes and laid on the floor, taking turns making up more and more ridiculous stories about the people in their buildings until one of them was doubled over with laughter. Bucky took Steve to Central Park where there were free jazz concerts and taught him the basic fingering on a violin. And even though Steve protested on every moral and legal ground he could think of, Bucky got him to the beach to learn how to swim.

He was lucky enough to spend Steve’s birthday with him again, a deal he had struck with his father after learning that they were going to be leaving for Greece on the 5th. They ended up how they had last year, sprawled out over the fire escape watching the fireworks as they shot over the river. But Bucky had leaned in close to make sure he was heard, pointed to a particularly dazzling firework, and said, “These are all for you, Stevie. They’re celebratin’ your birthday.” And even though Steve had shoved him and scoffed, he couldn’t ignore the way his chest warmd. He had given up on the idea that the whole country was celebrating little old him as soon as he was old enough, but there was still some part of him that wanted to believe that the world could see him through Bucky’s eyes. Maybe one day he would have the same unshakeable faith in himself like Bucky had in him, but for right now he was willing to delegate that job to his best friend.

 

* * *

 

“You’re blocking my sun.” Bucky said dryly, inching his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose.

“And you’re being a wet blanket.” Becca shoots back, her hands on her hips as she stands in front of Bucky’s chair. They had been in Greece for about half a week and Bucky was already falling back into his listless vacation mode that he seemed to have adopted as of late. He just didn’t feel like doing anything but tanning by the pool or on the beach and running his boxing drills. He hadn’t even gone sailing yet, for Christ’s sake. There was clearly something wrong with him and the rest of his family was starting to pick up on it.

“I’m just tired. I _work_ now, don’t you know?” He sneered, sitting up and running a hand through his damp hair. “Some of us deserve this vacation.”

“Oh please, your new obsession with acting poor is exhausting. So what is it? You dizzy with a dame? Who is she? Does ma approve?” Becca refuses to move out of Bucky’s line of vision, her hair falling off her shoulders as she leans in. “Don’t tell me Natalia finally got to you. Father will absolutely have a fit if you marry a Russian right now.”

Bucky made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, half-heartedly throwing a towel at his sister. “I’m ain’t seein’ no broad, Becks, stop that.”

“Don’t let ma catch you talking like that or she’ll have your hide.” Becca dances away from the towel, picking it up off the ground and throwing it back in his face. “It’s gotta be some girl that’s got you all mopey like this. C’mon, you won’t even go _riding_ with me.” Her voice ends in a whine, crossing her arms across her chest.

“There isn’t a girl. I just would rather be with friends right now, that’s all.” He shrugs, sliding his sunglasses back up his nose and trying his very best to ignore the fact that Becca automatically thought his moping about Steve was about a girl.

“Who? Howard? Or the friends from school you always complain about?” Bucky really wishes his sister would be a little less meddlesome, but he _has_ been a bit cagey about Steve.

“What, you don’t miss Howard? Don’t think I don’t see the way you look at him.” He raises an eyebrow at her, taking a sip from his pina colada and taking absolute delight in the way Becca colors. “I have a friend in Brooklyn, close by where I live. He’s different. I like him. You probably would too.” He adds, shuddering at the thought of the two most devil-may-care people in his life in the same room together.

“Why haven’t I met him, then?” Becca is still accusatory, but her tone softens a bit as she grabs the chair next to her brother, plopping down unceremoniously.

“It’s...a long story.” He hesitates, not sure if he’s fully ready to fess up to the secret he’s been keeping for the past year. “He doesn’t exactly run in the same circles.”

“James, tell me you haven’t done something stupid.” Her eyes are almost worried and Bucky feels guilty for keeping it from her for this long.

“Nothin’, Becca. He’s just...well, his family doesn’t have any money. He doesn’t either.” He squirms a little, thankful for the sunglasses as he gauges Becca’s reaction. He’s never ashamed of Steve, could never be ashamed of Steve, but that doesn’t mean that he’s still squirrely about how his inner circle will take it.

“So you’ve adopted a charity case?” Becca deadpans, cocking her head to the side. “ _That’s_ the big secret?”

Bucky feels the heat rise to his cheeks, clenching his jaw in anger. “He isn’t a charity case, he’s my _friend_. Just like you and Claudia.” He grits out, his voice low. “And he isn’t a secret. I just didn’t want you and our parents reacting like this. I know how it looks to everyone else.”

Becca just rolls her eyes at his anger, waving a hand dismissively. “Then why haven’t we met him? You know mother would love him. She would think it’s all very quaint.”

“Dammit, Becca, this isn’t a joke!” Bucky snaps, yanking his sunglasses off. “Because he doesn’t know that I have money, okay?”

And there it is, the bomb he’s been trying not to drop for the past year. He’s told Howard, of course, but the boy’s brian lives a hundred years in the future and isn’t surprised by anything anymore; his family is a different story. Becca’s quiet for a bit, squinting her eyes in confusion.

“Why?” She finally settles on a question, still looking at Bucky like he’s a puzzle she’s missing half the pieces for.

“It never came up at first. He didn’t recognize my name and it’s not like I go around telling people I’m rich—I never have to. But it was nice just...being able to be myself without the added pressure of the Barnes name, y’know? I didn’t have to fill some role he expected me to be, I was just...me. It was nice having someone want to be your friend because they wanted to, not because they wanted something from you or because our families know each other. He’s the first friend I’ve ever gotten to actually _choose_.” He’s justified this a thousand times in his head, but he still feels like he’s rambling nonsensically. “Just...okay, Claudia, right? Wouldn’t you still be her friend even if she didn’t have any money? If you met her on the street, wouldn’t you still want to be her friend?”

Bucky swears he sees a flash of doubt in his sister’s eyes, but she still nods. “I’m tired of the guys at school sidling up to me just so they can get invited to the Hamptons or so their parents can come to whatever gala father’s throwing. I just wanted something different, I guess. And there he was.”

Becca stays silent, digesting Bucky’s words. “What’s his name?” She finally asks, leaning back on her hands.

“Steve.” Bucky smiles automatically at his name, glad that he’s got one more person to share him with. “He doesn’t know when to quit, just like you. I peeled him off an alley after he had tried fighting two guys that had maybe 400 pounds on him.”

Becca makes a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat, but Bucky knows that she silently approves of the pluckiness. “When are you bringing him around, then?”

Bucky shakes his head, guilt crawling its way up his throat again. “I still haven’t told him.”

“You’ve already established that he wants to be friends with you-”

“You know, you and Howard sound a lot alike. Maybe you two _would_ work out.” He teases, rolling his eyes at the way Becca immediately perks up. “Nope, it’s still absolutely forbidden. You’re still only thirteen.”

“Three years is not that big of a difference, James. Look at our parents. One day he’ll realize that I’m the one for him.”

“That is if he ever looks up from his work table long enough to realize other people exist.”

“Stop trying to change the subject. Why haven’t you told him? How long has this been going on?” She cocks an eyebrow at him, giving him a pointed look.

“About a year.” Bucky really does try his best not to look sheepish, but he ends up looking like a dog that’s been caught in the garbage.

“A _year_?” Becca sputters, throwing another towel at Bucky for good measure. “Are you waiting for him to pass some kind of test? Christ, James!”

“Watch your language.” Bucky says automatically, immediately regretting it as he gets another towel to the face. “I didn’t want to tell him because I thought it would be weird if I sprung it on him after we had hung out a few times. And then, well, it just...it was too late.” It’s a weak excuse and he knows it, but there isn’t much else he has to stand on.

“He’s going to find out eventually. You can’t keep something like that hidden forever.” Becca narrows her eyes at him, crossing her arms again. Bucky vaguely wonders if this is a problem all thirteen year old girls have.

“He hasn’t found out so far.” He shoots back immediately, stopping himself and pinching the bridge of his nose. “He can’t find out, Becks. You don’t understand, he’d be _furious_ with me. He’d think that I was ashamed of him and was just being his friend so I could feel better about myself. He would’ve never been friends with me if I told him who my family was at the beginning.”

Becca glances around, dropping her voice like Steve was a few feet away eavesdropping. “James, he’s going to find out. This isn’t a secret you can keep.”

“He’s my best friend. I can’t lose him.” Becca is thrown by how open and vulnerable Bucky’s face is, so used to the boy with a silver tongue and a smooth voice that only shows the world what he wants them to see. Whoever this Steve kid is, he’s apparently important enough to throw Bucky off balance and have a heart-to-heart with his teenage sister he regularly calls a brat. It makes Becca a little sad because she knows her brother is going to get his heart broken, that his best friend is going to find out that he’s sitting on a 100 million dollar secret and never trust him again. Her brother may be annoying, but he’s still the boy that plaits her hair when she asks and always covers for her when she sneaks out of the house.

“What are you going to do?” She asks, softer this time.

“I don’t know.” Bucky confesses, looking down at his hands. “Nothing for right now, I guess. I keep dancing around the truth and helping him out behind the scenes. I’m starting to get the impression that the lower classes are worried about more pressing matters than keeping up to date on the New York elite family trees.” He’s trying to convince himself more than Becca and she lets it slide, just nodding.

“And this is all worth it? I mean, living in a hovel in Brooklyn and working for Howard and lying about who you are?” It’s the brutally honest question he’s needed someone to ask him for the past year and he has his answer before she’s even finished.

“Absolutely.”

 

* * *

 

“Bucky, I have no idea what to write for this.” Steve whines, throwing the paper back on Bucky’s chest and groaning. They were both lying side by side on Bucky’s floor, bored out of their minds on a Wednesday in October. Both of them had a day blessedly free from homework and Steve had showed up at Bucky’s apartment, already halfway through a rant about how nobody was paying close enough attention to what was happening in Germany. Bucky, now used to Steve’s political rants, just opened the door wider and laid down on the floor, humming his agreement at the appropriate times. Eventually, Steve ran out of steam and laid down next to him, letting his heart rate calm down before he asked Bucky about his day. Bucky had responded by grabbing a leaflet off of his coffee table and slapping it on Steve’s chest.

Becca had been surprisingly helpful after he had come clean about Steve, helping him brainstorm ideas for ways he could help Steve without making it overly obvious that Bucky was involved. Together, they had convinced that their father should run a contest to win several month’s worth of art lessons in New York City; the Depression was at its worst and the world needed more artists, Becca had suggested convincingly over dinner one night. And plus, it would look generous on both the Barnes’s and the Met’s behalf, both of which could always use a reputation boost. It had taken a few months to get together, but the applications were finally out. Steve (and any other poor budding artists that were interested) had about two months to write a short essay on why he thought he deserved the scholarship, as well as submitting a portfolio of his work. If he won (which Bucky had already arranged that he would), he would get six month’s worth of lessons with one of the Met’s handpicked teachers in the medium of the artist’s choice.

It was perfect. Steve would be able to get the personalized attention and direction he needed to make him a surefire candidate for art school, would make connections with artists, and would have no idea Bucky was behind it all. Becca and Bucky were, all things considered, quite proud of their combined intelligence.

They didn’t, however, take into account the fact that Steve might not want to do it.

“Bucky, I can’t.” Steve huffs as Bucky tosses the leaflet back to him, narrowly missing his face. “I don’t have a chance in hell of winning something like that. Not to mention, I can barely keep up with school as it is—I can’t add art lessons to that.”

“C’mon, don’t give me that. You spend all your free time drawing anyway. It’s a great opportunity—I think you’ve got a chance.” Bucky prods, nudging Steve with his elbow. “You could probably write the essay in the next twenty minutes instead of just lying here like a lug. C’mon, I’ll help you look for some stuff to put in your portfolio.”

Steve props himself up on his elbows, looking down at Bucky. “Buck, thank you for believing in me like that, but I really don’t want to do this. Between school and looking for a job I really don’t have time for art lessons. Or to even apply for them. I bet thousands of people apply to something like this—I’m not gonna waste the paper and postage just for them to never even glance at my work.” He pats Bucky’s arm, sitting all the way up and fixing his hair. “D’you wanna go sit out on the fire escape? This’ll probably be the last warm night for the year.” Steve stands up and stretches before wandering over to Bucky’s window, pulling it open, and climbing onto the fire escape.

Bucky gapes at Steve’s retreating form, crumpling the forgotten scholarship leaflet in his hand.

_Damn you, Steve Rogers._

 

* * *

 

In the end, Bucky had wheedled Steve into applying. Steve’s essay detailed his passion for art and lack of access to luxuries such as art classes and teachers. Bucky had convinced him to include some of his more creative sketches from the first few years of the Depression, when he would sketch around old propaganda posters and scraps of paper. Steve could have submitted a blank sheet of paper and Bucky would still make sure that he got the scholarship, but he wanted to make it all believable. Steve had to believe that he was good enough for this, to see himself like Bucky saw him. He was talented enough to catch the eye of the son of the director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and had inspired said son to create a sham contest for him to win so that Steve could further his craft. He had to make Steve realize that he was something special.

The Barnes were throwing a Christmas ball this year, meaning that Bucky got to stay home and spend his free time with Steve instead of playing croquet in Italy—an improvement for both his mood and Becca’s sanity. Steve had started insisting that they meet at Frankie’s, even though it was further out of the way for both of them than just meeting at the other’s apartment. Steve, ever the punctual one, always got there before Bucky and seemed to be making friends with the kids that had been hanging out there for years. Bucky was glad that Steve was finally coming out of his shell, but it made him nervous—any one of them could know who Bucky was and spill his secret without a second thought. His friends and acquaintances had started hanging around soda parlors less and frequenting speakeasies instead as they got older, making Bucky’s life a little easier, but he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop every time he walked through the heavy glass.

“Pipsqueak’s out back.” Frankie grunts at Bucky when he walked in, drying his hands off on a towel and jerking a thumb towards the alley door. Bucky frowns in confusion, but Frankie has already disappeared into the storage room. Bucky swears under his breath, his mind immediately jumping to conclusions—somebody had run their mouth over ice cream and now Steve was trying to kick their kneecaps in the alley—as he pushes open the door. What he’s not expecting to find is Steve with a girl leaning in and kissing him full on the lips.

Bucky lets the door slam behind him, causing Steve and the girl to jump apart. She’s pretty, Bucky notices with some part of his brain that isn’t short-wiring right now—short blonde hair and pink cheeks that his sister would kill for. He thinks he’s seen her around a few times, maybe as part of the group that Steve’s usually talking to when he comes to Frankie’s. But all of that information takes a back seat to the roar of blood rushing through his ears and the sharp pang of anger that knifes through him so suddenly and intensely that he’s momentarily scared by it.

“Didn’t know I was interruptin’.” Bucky drawls dryly, his voice dry. “By all means, don’t stop on my account.” He turns on his heel and just about runs out of the alley, his heart pounding so hard he can feel a vein jumping in his neck. He’s seeing red without even understanding why he’s so fucking _angry_ with Steve right now, focusing instead on shoving his hands in his pockets and getting the hell away from the two of them as fast as possible.

“Bucky, _Bucky, wait up_.” Steve pleads, chasing after him. “Buck, _stop_.” But Bucky doesn’t stop, rounding the corner and walking back to his apartment without slowing down for Steve. He can barely hear his best friend behind him, can only see the image of that dame leaning in and kissing Steve like it’s a broken film reel. It makes him want to scream. He’s almost startled when he feels a hand on his wrist, tugging it out of his pocket and holding him in place.

“Bucky,” Steve starts, out of breath from trying to catch up with him. “What’s wrong? I didn’t, she and I aren’t–” He colors, the tips of his ears turning pink. “She just said she wanted to talk to me outside, I didn’t know that she wanted–” He stumbles over his words again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I swear I’m not keeping secrets from you, Buck.”

That makes Bucky flinch, pulling him back into his body again. Steve doesn’t notice, barreling on with his tirade.

“I’m not replacin’ you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’d never leave you for a girl, Bucky, we’re best friends.” Bucky’s mind latches onto that explanation like a lifeline, making it his own regardless of whether or not it’s the truth. “You aren’t mad, are you?” Steve looks at him with big blue eyes, worried and expectant that it drains the rest of Bucky’s anger from his system, leaving him feeling exhausted and empty.

Bucky sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and stepping to the edge of the sidewalk. “No, Steve, I’m not mad at you. I was just surprised, is all. You didn’t say anything.” He feels bad for using this excuse, but his brain refuses to dig any deeper into his emotions.

Steve blushes again, looking down at the pavement. “Buck, I swear I had no idea. She’s only talked to me a few times, I didn’t think that...well, girls are usually all over _you_.” He gestures to Bucky, swallowing hard. “I thought she just maybe wanted to talk to me. I dunno.”

A laugh bubbles out of Bucky despite himself, because of _course_ Steve couldn’t see that a girl was into him, no matter how obvious. It was just like Steve Rogers to follow a girl into an alley alone assuming completely pure intentions. “You’re somethin’ else, Stevie.” He pauses, forcing himself to ask the question he doesn’t want to know the answer to. “You like her?”

Steve shrugs, still studiously avoiding Bucky’s gaze. “I don’t know, maybe? I didn’t even think she knew my name.”

“Well, she knew enough.” It’s out before Bucky can stop himself and he resists the urge to clamp a hand over his mouth. “What’s her name?”

“Suzie.”

Bucky makes a humming noise in the back of his throat, all of a sudden feeling exhausted as the adrenaline wears off. Steve finally looks back at him, sheepish. “So what did you want to do today?”

“I actually was trying to find you so that I could tell you I wasn’t feeling too hot. I didn’t want to worry you by not showing up, but I think I’m just gonna go sleep it off. I’m fine, just a sour stomach.” Bucky adds another lie to the pile, but he’s too exhausted to care and just wants to be alone.

Steve, for his part, looks appropriately guilty. “Of course, Buck. Do you want me to stop by later to see if you need anything? Ma makes a real good tea for sore stomachs and I’m sure she’d make you some.”

 _I’m sure your ma would love Suzie._ The thought almost physically startles Bucky, coming out of nowhere for reasons he can’t even start to fathom and bringing with it the tide of anger and frustration. He tries to shake it out, worrying a coin in his pocket to distract himself from his mounting anxiety. “Nah, I’ll be fine. I’ll come by after I’m done visiting with my parents. See you in a few days?”

“In a few days.” Steve nods, worry still swimming in his eyes. “Feel better, Bucky.”

“Stay safe, Stevie.” Bucky barely gets the sentence out before he’s heading back to his apartment, trying to hide how his hands are shaking.

 

* * *

 

Bucky absolutely did not want to be here.

The last thing he wanted to do was get dressed up and be James Barnes for his family and their friends, spending his whole night schmoozing and pretending to be the easygoing, charming boy they all wanted him to be. He wanted to be alone with his punching bag and a fingerful of scotch, trying his damndest not to think about Steve and that girl. Was he really that worried that Steve would forget about him the second a pretty girl wanted to dance with him? He was never worried about it before—the two of them were inseparable and Bucky had only ever been afraid that Steve would leave him if he knew that he was lying about his wealth. Girls had never been a problem for them before—Bucky flirted almost constantly, but he was never actually interested in any of them and had never brought a girl home. The girls always seemed to look past Steve like he was a piece of furniture, but he never seemed to mind and was always far more concerned with the state of the world and where his next meal was coming from than girls.

But now Steve might get a gal of his own, and the thought kept turning Bucky’s stomach. Maybe it was because he was afraid he would get less time with Steve. Maybe it was the fear that Steve would realize that Bucky wasn’t all that great, but he had taken his friendship because he didn’t have many other options. Maybe he was just worried that he was going to get his heart broken and didn’t want to see that happen to his best friend. Maybe Bucky was afraid he wasn’t good enough. Maybe he just didn’t want to watch Steve kissing girls in back alleys.

And now, as a result, he was in a horrible mood that not even hor d'oeuvres that cost double Steve’s rent could fix. But he was expected to be at his family’s biannual Christmas ball and to be perfectly pleasant around the guests. He didn’t count Howard as a guest though, and had dragged him out onto the balcony halfway through the evening to mope in peace. Howard was none too happy that Bucky had dragged him away from a gaggle of girls that he was in the process of convincing to go back to his place with, but Bucky had placated him with whiskey and a promise that the girls would still be there when they got back to the ballroom.

Howard leans against the bannister, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag. “So why’re you moping like you just got dumped? Christ, it’s like fifteen fucking degrees out here.” Howard shifts from foot to foot, huffing and offering the cigarette to Bucky.

Bucky scowls but takes the cigarette, trying to collect his thoughts as he sticks it between his lips. “Aren’t you the one that just got dumped? Becca told me ol’ Patty actually slapped you clean across the face when she found out you were sleeping with her sister.” He takes another drag before handing it back to Howard.

Howard smiles a shit-eating grin, shrugging. “What can I say? I can’t keep anyone off of me for too long.” He takes the cigarette from Bucky’s fingers, lingering a beat too long as he considers Bucky. “But you’re deflecting. You wouldn’t have dragged me out here in the ass-freezing cold if you weren’t really upset.”

Bucky sighs, closing his eyes and tipping his head back towards the sky. “It’s nothing, I’m just off lately. Steve’s got a new dame or something. I guess I’m just worried he’s gonna forget about me and I’ll have worked for your bum ass for absolutely nothing in the end.” He tries to turn it into a joke, deflecting what he’s really feeling and downplaying it now that he has a chance to speak it into existence.

Howard is silent for a moment, watching Bucky and letting his cigarette burn all the way to the butt. He stubs it out on the snowy balcony railing and tosses it in the lawn. “He doesn’t belong to you, Bucky. He’s allowed to have a life outside of you.”

Bucky snaps his eyes open, his head dropping so he stare at Howard—that was not at all what he was expecting. “What?”

“It sounds t’me like you’re trying to monopolize him. For Christ’s sake, you’ve got an entire double life you’re leading with your own family and friends and girls. But he can’t have someone outside of you?” Bucky doesn’t understand why Howard’s not on his side here, can already feel his defenses going up like walls around him. Because Howard’s right and he doesn’t want to hear it—he wants to hear that it’s totally okay to be upset over this, not that he should get over himself and let Steve be his own person.

“I don’t have a girl.” Bucky mumbles defensively, his cheeks coloring under the chastising.

“I know damn well you don’t.” It comes out sharper than Howard means it to and he wishes he hadn’t smoked his last cigarette just now. He sighs, trying to calm himself before he speaks again. “That isn’t the point. Isn’t the whole reason you’re doing this is because you want to be someone else than the guy you are in there?” He gestures back to the party, wrapping his arms around himself to ward off the cold. “The guy in there expects the world to fall at his feet. The guy that lives in a fuckin’ Hooverville and works at a factory wouldn’t feel entilted to someone’s entire attention and time.”

Bucky stares hard at the lights glittering off Long Island Sound, hating how every word feels like a punch to the gut. He tries not to ever admit that Howard is right—he had a big enough head—but he can’t deny how close everything hits. Maybe he did feel entitled to Steve’s time, felt like he was owed it after giving up luxuries like a nice apartment and never having to work. But Steve didn’t know that Bucky had given up anything, that he was purposely living like this just so Steve would be his friend—how could he fault him for that? Still, his stomach still turned at the idea that someone else could get close to Steve like that. Bucky thought he was special, as the rest of the world seemed to pass Steve Rogers by when Bucky thought he stood out like a beacon. He always told Steve that people would start recognizing how amazing he was one of these days—so why was he upset when it finally happened? Being selfish had never been a bad thing before in his life; now it was coming to bite him in the ass.

“If you ask me, this whole thing’s gone too far.” Howard says in response to Bucky’s silence, his hand habitually slipping inside of his inside tux pocket to hunt for a cigarette. Bucky hands him one from his own pack, still looking out at the water.

“I didn’t ask you.”

“I know.” Howard lights the cigarette and lets it dangle from his lips, following Bucky’s gaze towards the Sound.

“I’m gonna go back inside.” Bucky says, abortedly gesturing to the party going on behind them.

“You go on ahead. I wanna stay out here a while longer.” Howard waves the cigarette as explanation, leaning his elbows against the bannister.

If Howard Stark, America’s teenage heartthrob and infamous for how careless he is with other people’s feelings, was calling out Bucky, he knew he was well and truly fucked.

He steels himself, puts on the charming smile everyone wants to see, and slips back inside the party.

 

* * *

 

He shows up at Steve’s the day after Christmas, feeling properly chastised and carrying a bottle of Cabernet he had taken from the cellar before he left his house. It was a piss-poor peace offering compared to how Bucky had left things earlier, but he had never considered himself good at apologizing and was at a loss of what else to do. Steve swung the door open before Bucky could stop knocking, his eyes shining and practically vibrating with excitement. He pulls Bucky in by his wrist, shutting the door behind him and shoving a piece of paper into his free hand.

Bucky frowns, looking down at the familiar piece of paper. It’s a congratulatory note from the Met telling him that he’s won their contest and that details on his upcoming art classes will be forthcoming if he chooses to accept. Bucky had almost forgotten that he had sent out the acceptance letter right before Christmas and tries his best to look surprised. He pulls Steve into a tight hug, hoping Steve doesn’t hear how his heart is hammering in his chest. Steve is like home to hm, is perhaps the only person in the world that sees him for who he is and not what he is; Bucky was a fool for ever putting that in danger. He hates that he got mad, that he got scared. He hates that despite how they left things, Steve’s first instinct was to share his good news with Bucky, the person who prodded him into applying and who supported him every step of the way. He sighs shakily against Steve, letting the familiarity of him, of his apartment, of the smell of Sarah’s cooking wash away the anxiety that’s been coiling in his gut for days.

“I told ya you’d get it. I’m so proud of you, Stevie.” He lets out a soft laugh, pulling back so he can look at Steve. “Merry Christmas, eh? I guess my present is knowing that I was right, again.”

He’s rewarded with an eyeroll and a grin that warms Bucky all over.

 

* * *

 

For all the tongue clicking that Sarah gave Bucky as he gave her the bottle of wine (Just because Prohibition is over doesn’t mean you two can start drinking!), she was all too eager to crack it open for dinner. After two glasses she called it a night, making them promise not to stay up too late and drifting into her bedroom. The two of them leaned against each other as they passed the remaining bottle of wine between them, watching the snow fall out the window.

“You gonna remember lil ol’ me when you’re famous?” Bucky breaks the silence first, taking a sip from the bottle. Steve laughs, slow and sleepy from the wine.

“How could I forget my lucky charm?” He yawns, pawing at Bucky’s arm until he gets the bottle of wine passed back to him. They sit in silence for a few minutes before Steve speaks, his voice quiet and warm. “Thank you. For making me apply. And for believing in me.”

Bucky wants desperately to tell him that he’s always believed in him, that he would continue these convoluted scams of his until Steve believed that he was worthy. He wants to tell him that he’s sorry for how he reacted, even though it seems like Steve’s all but forgotten the whole thing. He wants to tell Steve that he’d try and move mountains for him if he asked just because he thinks he’s the only wholesome and genuine thing that’s happened to him.

Instead, he swallows his fear and goes a different route. “How’s Suzie?”

“Hmm? Who?” Steve asks, already half-asleep against Bucky.

Bucky gently pries the bottle away from Steve’s fingers, unable to keep the wide grin off his face.

 

* * *

 

Steve starts his classes almost a year to the date he got pneumonia, working under the tutelage of one of New York’s premiere teachers for mixed media art. Though Bucky sees Steve less, his eyes are always bright and he talks a mile a minute trying to tell Bucky everything he learned that week. Bucky sees a definite improvement in Steve’s art and the emergence of a clear personal style within just a few months and definitely doesn’t miss the way Steve’s eyes light up when he shows Bucky another sketch or painting.

By the time summer break rolls around, Howard promotes Bucky to working with him in the lab; he ends up being Howard’s personal grease monkey, but he can’t deny that it’s a hell of a lot more fun than an assembly line. At least this time around he gets to talk to other human beings and tinker with inventions that are fifty years ahead of their time. Steve’s classes don’t end until July and Bucky finds himself staying late at the lab, pouring over equations with Howard and falling in love with science all over again. Howard had graduated last year and was already working on degrees in engineering and chemistry, much to Bucky’s frustration. After all, _he_ was five months older than Howard—a fact that he liked to bring up whenever Howard got too cocky about his _college_ classes.

It was Bucky’s last summer before he graduated, but he wasn’t in any hurry to figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life. He was far more content to watch Steve paint in his apartment by the light of the window, or to lie by his Hamptons pool with a thick novel and ignore his sister’s attempts to get him to go swimming with her. His parents hounded him constantly about his next plans, but he wasn’t in any hurry to move out of Brooklyn and leave the life he’d started building for himself behind. He was toying with the idea of going into music, maybe picking up another instrument; or he could always work with Howard, putting his endless imagination for science fiction together with Howard’s nothing-is-impossible attitude and bringing the future to the present. Or he could just do nothing, lounge around all day and bankroll Steve’s art classes for the foreseeable future; it wasn’t as though he was hurting for money to support himself.

Still, that didn’t mean that he couldn’t pick up a second job for the summer.

Steve’s classes ended in just two weeks, and he was a nervous ball of energy trying to finish his last assignment. He had just about run out of muse, drawing and painting more in the past five and a half months than he had in the decade of his life. His little room was littered with sketches of just about everything in the apartment, endless skylines, a few full portraits of Sarah that Bucky believed could already be in the Met if Steve would just let him hang them up there. But he needed something big for his last project that would leave his teacher with a lasting impression of the skinny kid from Brooklyn that was far too feisty for his own good.

They were both stretched out on the couch, trying to cool off after playing soccer in the park. Or rather, Bucky dribbling the ball around and Steve kicking at his shins when he got too close. Steve was trying to figure out his next two weeks aloud, drawing lazy circles with his finger in the air. He had already shot down Bucky’s idea of playing off of a famous painting, or drawing the view from the top of the Empire State Building. Bucky was struck with a thought so obvious it almost made him laugh out loud. “Draw me.”

“What?” Steve’s hand stops mid-air, staring at Bucky.

“For your project. I’ll be your model. Your portraits are always your best work, anyway.” Bucky sits up straighter, gesturing to his face. “ _This_ is a work of art that belongs in the Louvre. You might as well be the first one to draw it before somebody else gets to it.”

Steve rolls his eyes, the slightest bit of pink creeping up his neck. “I’ve already drawn you plenty of times, Buck.”

“Not since you started your classes, and you’ve just done some sketches. C’mon, I’ll hang it up right above the couch if you’re lucky.” He elbows Steve gently, excited now. “I’m a great muse.”

“I don’t know…” Steve is hesitant, wanting to say yes without seeming too eager.

“You got a better idea?”

“Well, no, but–”

“Well then let’s go.”

The next two weeks, Bucky learns how to be a model. It’s uncomfortable at first, to have Steve staring at him so intensely, like the room is too hot all of a sudden and he’s worried that there’s something on his face. But he learns to enjoy it, the vulnerability that he leans into around Steve; there’s a sort of intimacy to it that Bucky likes, though he’s not willing to think about it any further than that. He learns how to stay still for long periods of time and how to pose himself, how to pull laughter out of Steve in the middle of sketching sessions where he’s far too hard on himself for not being able to get something just right.

Steve, for his part, becomes engrossed in drawing Bucky wherever he can, however he can. He fills his sketchbook from last Christmas with fuller portraits of Bucky at Coney Island on the boardwalk, of him lying on a towel on the beach, his hair plastered to his forehead and a serene smile on his face. He had always liked drawing Bucky before, but now he paid even more attention to the aristocratic plane of his nose, the way his eyes caught the light, the hollows of his cheekbones. Bucky was—strictly artistically and aesthetically pleasing, of course—beautiful. He knew deep down that his next painting would be his best yet.

In the end, he painted Bucky at Steve’s bedroom window, playing his violin like he had when he was sick. It was breathtaking and even Steve, who criticized his own art endlessly, was intensely proud of it. Bucky had been speechless when Steve nervously showed him, wringing his hands together until Bucky pulled him into a bone-crushing hug that lasted longer than either of them were willing to admit. To celebrate his last art lesson, Bucky took Steve out to the bar. Even though they were both underage under the recently-repealed Prohibition laws, Bucky knew exactly where to go where they wouldn’t be turned away. Though Steve was hesitant about the idea at first, a beer and a half in and he was hanging off of Bucky, grinning like a fool and trying to make friends with everyone around him.

Bucky dragged him back to his place before Steve got too soused, tucking him into Bucky’s bed and grabbing him a glass of water. “Drink.” He pushes the glass into Steve’s hands, making sure he drains the whole thing before taking it back.

“Thank you.” Steve slurs, grinning up at Bucky. “I mean, for ev’rything. Lettin’ me draw you...you’re nice to draw.” He mumbles, fighting to stay awake. “You’re swell, y’know that, Buck? ‘m glad you’re my friend.” He tries patting Bucky’s hand, misses horribly, and ends up smacking the blanket a few times for good measure.

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, nodding in agreement. “I’m glad you’re my friend too, Stevie. Now go to bed or you’ll be hurtin’ in the morning.” He tries pulling the blankets higher up to Steve’s chin, but Steve wiggles in resistance, huffing.

“But I don’t wanna go to bed. I need to...I need to tell you that you’re good. At things. At everything. At being you.” Steve hiccups, sinking further into the bed as he loses the battle against his drooping eyelids. “Thanks, Buck. You’re a good model, you were right. Y’got nice cheekbones.”

“Nice cheekbones?” Bucky’s eyebrows furrow, but Steve’s already asleep, his mouth falling open slightly. He smiles, chuckling softly and, without really understanding why, (he’ll blame it on the alcohol in the morning), leans down and kisses Steve’s forehead.

“Night, Stevie.” He murmurs, shutting the door behind him as gently as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, comments feed me and water my crops.


	5. summer, 1934-1935

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm BACK! I somehow forgot the charger for my laptop while on vacation, so I didn't get to write. BUT I worked overtime to get this to you guys because I love y'all. Enjoy!

Bucky tips another glass of champagne back, not even bothering to look before dropping the glass somewhere behind him. Some waiter would snatch it before it fell; if they didn’t, then they’d clean it up. He usually wasn’t this careless and overly cocky, especially in front of guests, but he was well on his way to getting roaringly drunk at his family’s annual 4th of July party. He hates to miss Steve’s birthday, but his father had been increasingly irritated with him as late for, as he called it, “fucking around”. As a result, he was expected to be at more social events and was losing excuses for why he was renting an apartment in Brooklyn Heights. Graduation was less than a year away and Bucky didn’t have the slightest clue what he wanted to do after high school. He didn’t _have_ to work, and neither would any of his descendants for the foreseeable future, but his father was a self-starter and had the expectation that Bucky would study and work. He knew that he could go into music or mathematics, perhaps pick up a higher position with Stark Industries or become a renowned music teacher in due time. But he had been working for Howard long enough to know that he wasn’t the largest fan of work—he far preferred the lethargic, luxurious life of the fabulously wealthy. Regular schedules, commitments to strangers, all of it made Bucky want to crawl out of his skin.

But his father’s word was as good as law, and Bucky would prefer that he keep his inheritance. So, he made more appearances at family parties, spun answers out of thin air when people asked him what he wanted to do with his life, and avoided thinking seriously about what happened after graduation next year. He had gotten Steve an easel for his birthday, a sturdy piece of metal that folded up for easy carrying so that he could lug it to the beach or Central Park when inspiration struck; he hoped that it would serve as an appropriate apology for not being physically there for Steve’s birthday. It wasn’t all bad, however; the champagne flowed even more freely this year, and Howard was finally in attendance after years of being gone for work during the summer. It was a perfect occasion for seeing who could drink the most without throwing up over the side of the balcony and who could get the most dances. So far, Howard was winning on the liquor, but Bucky was pulling lead with thirteen dances with the girls over Howard’s ten.

“I can’t drink _and_ dance.” Howard had grumbled at Bucky as they spun two girls around the dance floor, Bucky mouthing a _“thirteen!”_ over the girl’s shoulder—what was her name, Betty? Becky?—with a wink. Bucky had swung his partner closer to Howard, almost dancing back to back with Howard.

“I thought you said nothing was impossible for you?”

They had called it quits shortly thereafter, too dizzy and thirsty to keep up their competition. They were lingering at the edge of the party, alternating water and champagne as they watched the rest of the ballroom carry on.

“C’mon, let’s go outside. I’m dyin’ in here.” Howard tugs at his collar, eyeing the waiter that nearly fell over himself trying to catch Bucky’s discarded champagne flute. Bucky just nods in response, grabbing a carafe of water straight off one of the tables as they make their way outside. They end up in the garden sitting on the low wall under a willow tree, hidden from the party upstairs but still able to see the bay for the fireworks. Bucky used to disappear here all the time as a child, particularly when parties got too overwhelming for him and he needed a place where he wouldn’t be spotted by guests on the balcony, eager to pinch the young Barnes’ cheeks and smear lipstick all over his cheek. In more recent years it had served as a perfect hideout for drinking and smoking, though he figured his mother always knew where he disappeared off to.

“Better than Chicago?” Bucky asks, taking a gulp of water before passing it to Howard.

“Marginally.” Howard takes the carafe without looking at Bucky, propping a leg up on the wall and resting his arm over his knee. “They’ve got a new hooch out there that’ll make you go blind, I swear. Couldn’t get the taste out of my mouth for days.” He presses the cool glass to his forehead, closing his eyes. “They don’t fuck around out there.”

Bucky just hums noncommittally, perking up at the first red explosion in the distance. “They’re starting already.” He nudges Howard with his elbow, already pulling the glass from his hands for another drink. Howard acquiesces, the two of them falling into a comfortable silence as they watch the glitter of the fireworks reflect off of the bay. They drain the water in no time, the glass discarded somewhere in the grass below with a dull thump. Bucky knows that graduation looms in front of him like a guillotine, that the world is apparently going to hell in a hand basket all around him, that his father’s patience with his cagey, strange behavior is running out fast; but he can’t bring himself to care about any of it. He’s oddly elated, riding a buzz of liquor and adrenaline from dancing, sitting next to his oldest friend on one of the most expensive properties in the Hamptons, watching fireworks developed by Stark Industries and paid for by the Barnes. Bucky felt like he owned the world—more so than usual—and for once, he didn’t feel as though his entire body was on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Bucky finds himself looking west towards Brooklyn as the finale starts, wondering if another set of blue eyes is looking at the same fireworks, is feeling the same mixture of elation and longing that swims through Bucky’s veins right alongside too much liquor. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Howard turn towards him, his expression inscrutable as his eyes flick over Bucky’s face. He turns towards Howard, about to ask him what was the matter before Howard’s lips are against Bucky’s, soft and only a little clumsy as he leans forward.

Bucky’s brain short-circuits, the champagne making him slow and muddling his thinking. _Howard, kissing me_ , he thinks in a stroke of brilliance. Before he can get anything more to fire across his synapses, Howard’s already pulled back, looking at Bucky with wide eyes. Neither of them says a word, both of them blushing furiously as the finale dies down into nothing more than a smattering of claps from the balcony upstairs and smoke hanging over the bay. Howard breaks eye contact first, opting to look straight ahead and twist his fingers together in his lap. Bucky distantly realizes that he doesn’t think that Howard has ever looked _nervous_ about anything in his life. The cassanova persona had cracked, revealing a boy that chewed on the inside of his cheek and twisted his hands in his lap in an anxious rhythm.

He knows that this is wrong. Bucky had been in Brooklyn Heights long enough to know what the police did to men who preferred to share the beds of other men, had seen too many artists fall from grace because they didn’t keep their sexual pursuits under wraps. He didn’t have to be a practicing Christian to know that this sort of thing was condemned on nearly every spiritual and moral level there was. But he didn’t feel repulsed in the slightest, didn’t feel as though he was committing some grave sin. He had always thought that it was the partner that was lacking in style, always slightly repulsed by their advances and sticky lips; this was far different, with rougher lips and a spark that shot down Bucky’s spine that he thought he was supposed to get with the dames. His brain is trying to catch up with him, processing far too much information as his brain breaks and tries to reform around his new reality. Howard kissed him, and Bucky didn’t mind it. He actually kind of liked it.

He’s confused—he’s never thought of Howard in that context before, doesn’t realize how he could have missed all the signs leading up to this. How long had it been going on? He knows Howard took a huge risk with this, feels the impact of that kind of trust deep in his gut like a punch. Howard surely knew that he was risking their friendship, his standing in society and in his father’s company, his entire reputation. He can’t quite yet reconcile this Howard with the one that so gleefully slept through most of America’s beauty queens, so his brain instead shifts to what has been clawing its way to the front of his mind this whole time: It’s Steve’s birthday. It’s the Fourth of July and he was being kissed by Howard Stark and Bucky couldn’t stop thinking about how wrong it was that Steve wasn’t here; that he wasn’t the one sitting next to him on the wall, knocking his heels against the stone and looking up at Bucky through his lashes. He tries to screw his eyes shut, think about anything else, but all he sees are eyes the color of seaglass looking at him with apprehension instead of deep brown. He wishes Steve was here. He almost barks out a manic laugh, his brain finding it quite hilarious that his world was being flipped upside-down and his only coherent thought was, _Wow, I wish Steve was here!_  
They sit in silence, Bucky trying his best to formulate a response that wouldn’t send Howard running while also making sure that he wasn’t leading him on. He took the evening of Howard’s breath beside him to mean that his friend had realized that Bucky wasn’t about to practice his boxing techniques on him, nor would he call running for Howard to be removed from the party and his life. Still, he stayed silent, floundering for the right words to say that could, impossibly, make this better.

“I know you love him.” Howard’s voice cuts through the silence like a knife, his voice resigned and tired, as though he had been arguing a losing battle all day.

Bucky visibly reels, turning on Howard with wide eyes. “What?”

Howard flicks his eyes over to Bucky’s before wincing, dropping his gaze back to his lap. “It’s written clear as a fuckin’ sign on your face, kid. It isn’t me you want.”

_Blue eyes, thin wrists, blonde bangs lifted by the wind, a laugh that sounds like windchimes._

Bucky blinks, the images flashing past his eyes as vividly as if he was watching them at the movie theater. His brain doesn’t want to delve deeper into the truth that’s been germinating just beneath the surface of his consciousness for God knows how long, recoiling from the thought of having to face more dangerous facts. Even so, he can’t stop the onslaught of realization that crashes over him like a wave, something that he had been trying to bury for years coming to the surface.

He might like boys.

And he might be in love with Steve Rogers.

He stammers uselessly, shaking his head even as his mind finally grasps the truth. “I don’t– Howard, I’m not–”

“I’m one of the smartest people in the world, don’t play dumb with me. No one in their right mind would give up all of this,” Howard motions to the garden around them, the vast property that’s been passed down his mother’s line for generations. “Just for a _friend_.” There’s a hint of disdain in his voice, almost hidden behind the weariness. “You’re thick as a fucking rock, you know that? Christ, look at your face, you really didn’t know?”

Bucky just shakes his head mutely, his face burning as he stared resolutely at the grass beneath him. He doesn’t want to admit that he liked the feel of Howard’s lips against his, or that he wants to be around Steve more than he’s ever wanted to be around a potential girlfriend, or that Howard figured this all out before him and so _fuck who else knows_.

“Bucky. _Bucky_ , look at me. You’re spiraling.” Howard’s voice is softer this time, bringing Bucky out of his own head with a hand on his jaw. “Breathe.”

He does, in for four beats, hold for seven, out for eight. Just like Howard taught him when they were kids and Bucky started hyperventilating when he got too overwhelmed at big parties. It was a secret that Howard had sworn to him that he would take to the grave—Bucky supposed they were adding to that list tonight.

“You really didn’t know?” Howard asks as Bucky’s breathing slows, dropping his hand self-consciously from his cheek.

Bucky just shakes his head in response, swallowing hard. “It isn’t exactly something I’ve considered.”

Howard sits back, staring towards the water instead of at Bucky. “I figured you were a bit of a fruit a while ago—never really had the same enthusiasm for dames like I do. You’re charming enough, don’t get me wrong, but you aren’t all over ‘em. And then when your little...well, whatever he is, came along, I knew you were gone. For Christ’s sake, Bucky, you _moved_ to Brooklyn _fucking_ Heights to stay in some hovel just to keep this kid around. You built a whole double life for what? To feel what it’s like to be poor? You took it far past the point of just a fun little experiment.”

“I wanted a friend that didn’t like me just because I have money.” Bucky repeats dumbly, the excuse sounding hollow and ridiculous on his lip.

Howard looks as though he’s been struck, pain flashing across his face. “Bullshit.” He spits. “I’ve never needed your money, Barnes. I didn’t stick by your sorry ass for seventeen years just because I wanted something from your family.”

Guilt lances through Bucky, hot and painful as he marvels at how marvelously he’s managed to fuck everything up so quickly. “I didn’t mean–”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” Howard doesn’t meet Bucky’s gaze, choosing to glare out at the water instead. Bucky stays silent, knowing he has no defense left and mentally kicking himself for being so callous. Eventually, Howard sighs, scrubbing at his face with a hand. “What I’m trying to say is that you wouldn’t have done all of that for a social experiment. Maybe this all started out as you wanting to adopt a little pet project, but you’re full on obsessed with him now. I’ve never seen you as jealous as when he kissed that one broad before Christmas. You changed a huge part of your life just so you could be closer to him—it’s been obvious for years now, Buck.”

“Then why…” Bucky asks after a few moments, motioning between them.

Howard shrugs, reaching into his jacket to pull out a cigarette. “I don’t know.” He admits, his voice small as he lights the end of his cigarette. “Figured if you liked guys, you might give me a chance. Thought maybe Steve was just a pipe dream.” He closes his eyes, blowing out a stream of smoke. “Maybe I’m just drunk.”

Bucky stills, afraid to move too suddenly and break the rare moment of Howard’s vulnerability. “I thought you liked girls.”

Howard just laughs, short and humorless. “Nothin’ saying I’ve gotta choose between the two, pal. I can appreciate art on both sides.”

Bucky tries not to dwell too long on possibly being compared to art, Steve’s final painting of him for art classes floating to his mind. “Have you…”

“Been with other guys? Sure. Not as easy, obviously, and they have to be just as desperate to keep secrets as I am, but it’s happened.” Howard tilts his head back, smoking like he’s chasing something to numb him. “Why, you curious?”

Bucky tries to ignore the way heat rushes to his cheeks, shaking his head. “I just never knew.”

“Kind of the whole point.”

They lapse back into silence, Bucky desperately trying to make sense of his own mind and Howard kicking himself over ever thinking that the man he had pined after for years would want him back. He had been fighting a losing battle the day Bucky pulled that scrawny kid out of an alley; whatever chance he ever had with Bucky turned to dust in 1932. Howard wasn’t used to not getting what he wanted. He was even less used to feelings that spanned years, not just a few months of passing fancy. But Bucky didn’t need to know that, didn’t need to see any further down past the persona Howard had built for himself over the years as sarcastic, immovable, unflappable. He sighs, jumping down from the wall and studiously avoiding Bucky’s eyes.

“I’m going back up.” He couldn’t take the silence anymore, knew exactly who Bucky was thinking about in the aftermath of all of this. He didn’t need to torture himself any further tonight—he’d get over it eventually. He always had.

“I think I’ll stay out here a little longer.” Bucky says softly, sounding miles away.

 _I know._ Howard thinks, leaving Bucky to his own thoughts.

 

* * *

 

Bucky stares up at the ceiling, still awake in bed despite the dawn creeping past the horizon. He can’t get his mind to shut up, the puzzle pieces he had been subconsciously trying to suppress for years. As much as he loathes to admit it, he knew he had gone to extravagant lengths for Steve, his brain completely failing to function rationally when it came to him. He didn’t just want to be Steve’s friend, he wanted to be Steve’s _everything_ , wanted that thousand-watt smile turned on _him_ as often as possible. Howard was right—it was glaringly obvious to anyone who looked close enough; it was obvious in the way Bucky chased after Steve’s attention like he needed it to live, the way he crafted elaborate plans just to make him smile, to make him feel worthy. It was evident in the way he was distant and moody when he had spent too much time away from Brooklyn, the wicked flashes of jealousy he got from seeing Steve with another girl that threatened to consume him whole. Bucky would do anything for Steve, _had_ done things he never thought he would ever do just for the attentions of one small kid from Brooklyn.

Bucky had fallen for his best friend, somewhere along the years, without even realizing it.

He groans, pressing a pillow against his face in a weak attempt to smother himself into unconsciousness. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if Howard was right and he was in love with Steve, it didn’t matter that his skin felt too tight when he thought about kissing Steve in his garden with fireworks going off all around him. None of it mattered because Steve obviously liked girls and wasn’t some kind of invert like Bucky. None of it mattered because Bucky was the eldest and only son, destined to marry a woman and have children that could carry on the Barnes name, regardless of what he wanted. He had seen what his father had done to artists that were caught sodomizing or sending love letters to other men. It didn’t matter what Bucky wanted. Perhaps money couldn’t buy him everything.

He could just make it go away, push it down until it disappeared and Steve was nothing more than just a friend. How hard could it be?

 

* * *

 

It was, as it turns out, near impossible.

Now that Bucky was aware of his feelings, every moment with Steve was calculated and obsessed over—even more so than before. Bucky found himself jumping when Steve’s hands brushed his own as they walked down the sidewalk together, caught himself staring at the planes of his face and wondering how the hell he went this long without realizing that he was well and gone for him. He tried to push it all down, to look at Steve as nothing more than his best friend, but he couldn’t stop the hammering in his heart whenever Steve met his eyes and grinned that lopsided grin that made Bucky feel like he could eat the world whole.

At night, he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and fought back tears of frustration. He wanted to be _normal_ , wanted Howard to stop avoiding him, wanted his life to start falling into place instead of fracturing further with every step he took. He started waking up in the middle of the night, chasing the hazy edges of dreams where Steve was underneath him, saying Bucky’s name like a prayer. He hated himself, hated the cold showers and the twisted sheets and the way he couldn’t meet Steve’s eyes the next day. He was ashamed of the naked desperation in his actions, his clear constant grapple for Steve’s undivided attention whenever they were together, but not so ashamed that he stopped. He couldn’t stop, the same way that he couldn’t simply stop breathing. He had constructed a large amount of his life around Steve Rogers for the past 2 years and he couldn’t stop now, a snowball effect that had spiraled out of his control. The best he could hope for now was that Steve never caught on and left him, adding one more earth-shattering secret to Bucky’s repertoire.

If Steve noticed anything had shifted with Bucky, he didn’t mention it. He continued to ask Bucky to spar with him, still slept with his back pressed up against Bucky’s in the winter when they got snowed in and couldn’t go back to their respective apartments, still cuffed Bucky when he got too snarky. He still continued to draw Bucky by the light of his window, and Bucky did his best to keep the flush from his cheeks at the attention. He was entirely unaccustomed to a life of not being able to get what he wanted, had lived his whole life never being denied a thing. But he couldn’t snap his fingers or pay his way through this one; couldn’t drop his last name to get him where he wanted to be. It frustrated him to no end, but he figured that was his penance for the unnatural feelings he had.

Even if they didn’t feel unnatural in the slightest to him.

 

* * *

 

Bucky graduated with little fanfare compared to his peers, pressuring his parents to keep the graduation party under 200 people. He had, at the last minute, decided to take a few classes at Columbia as a part-time chemistry student, working the rest of the time at Howard’s lab. He had finally started speaking to Bucky again, but their relationship was far more formal than it ever had been. Bucky supposed he was lucky enough that Howard was speaking to him at all. The plan hadn’t entirely pleased his father, but he was off the hook for now. He was actually starting to look forward to the chance to focus exclusively on science, on numbers and theorems that stayed consistent and reliable when the rest of his life shifted around him.

Sarah insisted on having Bucky over to celebrate in their tiny apartment, baking Bucky’s favorite—apple tart—and acquiescing to the boys sharing a bottle of wine out on the fire escape. Bucky thought the whole thing was leagues better than being surrounded by hundreds of people that barely knew him and were barely interested in him. He found greater peace knocking knees against Steve’s, swinging the neck of a bottle of wine to a tune only he could hear. When Steve inevitably fell asleep against his shoulder, Bucky did his best to block it all out, screwing his eyes shut and reminding himself that he would ruin everything if he couldn’t get this under control.

He had to get this under control.

 

* * *

 

Steve learned to hate college. He had started to take for granted the sheer amount of time Bucky and him got to spend together, three years of finding pockets of times on the weekends and endless summer weeks attached at the hip. But now that Bucky had started classes and upped his hours at work, Steve realized just how dependent he had grown on Bucky’s constant presence. He had stopped trying to make friends somewhere along the way, perfectly content with just Bucky and tired of being disappointed by kids that only saw him as a thing to be pushed around. But now he felt the absence of friends acutely, like he was ten again and no one would play soldiers with him on the playground because he was “too small”. He had his mother, but she was still fighting to keep them both afloat during the Depression, still taking more shifts than she should and coming home when Steve was still at school. They were luckier than most, Steve knew—their rent was far lower than most of the neighborhood after the landlord had cut their rent nearly in half three years ago, and the heat mostly stayed on through the winter now. Sarah always shook her head and told him that Mary was surely looking after them when Steve asked why they had run into such luck. Steve was more inclined to believe that the mob was living in their complex.

He was happy for Bucky, knew how much he loved science and knew how hard he had worked for the past few years to be able to afford classes. Steve’s positive he could listen to Bucky talk about the stars and how penicillin was going to change the world for the rest of his life, if he needed to; there was something that made Steve’s heart jump and warm whenever Bucky got excited, his eyes sparkling as he shoved another pulp into Steve’s hands. It was a mirror of how Steve lit up when he talked about art, and Steve was more than willing to indulge Bucky on whatever he wanted to talk about. It still, however, didn’t make him being more absent any easier. Steve knew that he was being selfish, especially after how hard Bucky supported him taking art classes from the Met, but even that couldn’t knock loose the nagging frustration that crawled up his throat. He missed Bucky, plain and simple. He didn’t realize how much he had become a constant fixture in his life until he felt the absence of him as physical as a hole in his chest.

He found himself drawing Bucky more often, more familiar with his features than his own by now as he sketched aimlessly in the back of the pulps Bucky gave him, or in the endless supply of sketchbooks Bucky provided for him. It was hard not to see just how much his life had improved since Bucky had come into his life, though he knew how uncomfortable it made Bucky when Steve called him his lucky charm. It didn’t change the fact that he was—he was the guardian angel that was the first person to show him how to get back up instead of telling him to run away. When Bucky looked at him, he didn’t see a helpless, sickly thing; he just saw Steve. He was the first person outside of his ma to believe in him, to see him as a whole person rather than just pieces of his identity: the scrawny kid, the sick kid, the too-angry kid, the quiet artist. Bucky saw all of those things and embraced all of them, never asked Steve to change or be someone he wasn’t. He loved Bucky for it; not in the way that his mother loved his father, but something close. Something that went deeper than just calling Bucky a friend.

But his chest always felt weird when he thought too hard about it, so he focused instead on perfecting the edges of Bucky’s jaw on paper, trying to find the right shade of blue for his eyes even though his colorblindness made him second-guess every shade he picked up. He still got to see him on the weekends and some rare weeknights, lying on his stomach and absentmindedly finishing his homework as Bucky poured over textbooks thicker than Steve’s waist. He knew that graduation was just around the corner for him now, but a degree would be out of the question. He could start working, especially now that New Deal agencies were popping up to create jobs all over the country. If he made enough money to sustain himself and his mom with a little extra for art supplies, he could make it work; a way to keep up his passion without relying on it to feed him. He wasn’t naive about his chances of making it in the art scene, regardless of whether or not he got a scholarship from the Met one time. He was eternally grateful, but it was far from a guarantee that there would be opportunities in the future.

He told himself that as long as he was with Bucky, things would turn out alright.

 

* * *

 

“Did you get a haircut?” Steve asks as Bucky walks through the door, a paintbrush between his lips.

Bucky jumps about three feet in the air, clutching his chest. “Fucking _Christ_ Steve. You gotta tell me when you’re coming over.”

Steve hides a smile as best he can, sticking the paintbrush behind his ear and hopping off the stool. “You shouldn’t have given me a key, then.” He hands the stack of mail he brought in for Bucky, humming as he wanders into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. Bucky’s still trying to slow his pulse, staring at the mail like it just fell from the sky.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Steve points out, coming back into the living room with his glass. “Did you get a haircut?”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck, toeing off his shoes and hanging up his hat. “Yeah, figured I needed one.”

“The long hair suits you.” Steve says absentmindedly, already padding back to his easel. Bucky stares at him, the tips of his ears reddening. What the hell was he supposed to take from that?

“Well, my ma doesn’t think so.” He hedges, setting down his bag and following Steve. “What’re you working on?”

“Just a still life of the apartment. The lighting is best during the day and, well, some of us still have holidays off.” Steve’s nose crinkles, appraising his work so far. “I didn’t think you’d be home until later. I was gonna make us dinner.”

Bucky grins, cuffing Steve upside the head lightly. “Aw, c’mon, you aren’t mad at me, are you? Last time you cooked you gave me _food poisoning_. Class let out early. Figured I’d get a cut and head back to start on my homework.” A splash of color catches his eye and he steps back, stifling a laugh. A splotch of blue stands out against Steve’s blonde hair, a blunt line from where he set the paintbrush behind his ear.

“What?” Steve catches Bucky staring, trying to follow his gaze. “Buck, _what?_ ”

“It seems you’ve started using your hair as a canvas.” Bucky grins, taking the paintbrush from Steve’s ear and wiping off the residue down the bridge of Steve’s nose. “There. Completes the look.”

The look of pure murder in Steve’s eyes is enough to make Bucky cackle in delight, always eager to push Steve’s buttons. “Problem, Stevie?”

Steve answers by dragging his hand through his palette and smacking the side of Bucky’s face, dragging his hand down in a line of color.

There’s a pause, both of them staring at each other before Bucky’s on Steve, dumping the palette over his head and rubbing it into his hair. Steve squeals, ducking underneath Bucky’s arms and grabbing a tube of paint and squeezing it in Bucky’s direction. Bucky yelps, narrowly missing the spray of red paint before he grabs Steve around the middle, pulling him backwards onto the floor. Steve lands on top of him with a huff of a laugh, Bucky trying to grab the tube of paint out of his hands.

“You bastard, this is a new suit!” Bucky laughs, blindly grabbing for Steve’s wrist.

“And you painted my _face_.” Steve shoots back, trying to wriggle off of Bucky to no avail. Bucky finally grabs the tube of paint from his hands with a triumphant, _“Ha!”_. He tosses the tube out of reach and Steve huffs his defeat, neither of them moving. Bucky is suddenly very aware of how close Steve is, how Steve is _on top of him_ and breathing heavily against him. He all but dumps Steve on the floor, clambering to his feet in a vain attempt to try and hide the flush creeping up his neck and the growing problem in his pants. He looks down at the splotch of red on his shirt, swearing under his breath.

“Damn, you actually got me.”

“It’ll wash out.” Steve is still getting to his feet, his voice sounding smaller. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking–”

“I’m impressed that you managed to hit me, not mad.” He throws a reassuring grin over his shoulder, already pulling off his jacket. “‘s just a shirt.” Bucky had thirty more like it at home and wasn’t even planning on keeping this one for longer than another wear or so. He walks towards his bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it off to drape it over a chair. He rifles through his closet for another one before he hears Steve’s voice at his back.

“Wait.”

Bucky turns, his eyebrows knitting together. “What?”

“I...I have an idea.” Steve twists his fingers, trying his damnedest not to look too flustered. “Leave your shirt off.”

Bucky starts, not quite sure he’s hearing Steve right. “Pardon?”

Steve looks almost pained as he points back to the living room. “I have an idea.”

Bucky dumbly follows Steve’s finger, walking out to the living room and wondering what the hell Steve’s got in his head now. His heart is pounding a million miles an hour, the stupid part of his bran chanting over and over again, _Steve wants you shirtless Steve wants you shirtless._ He turns back towards Steve once he’s in the middle of the room, cocking an eyebrow and trying his best to seem in control of his own emotions.

Steve seems less sure of himself now, shifting nervously from foot to foot. “I want to paint you. On you, I mean. Shit, I mean–”

“Okay.” Bucky cuts him off with an easy smile that hides how fast his heart is beating.

“Really?” Steve sounds surprised, blinking.

“Why not?” The thought of Steve that close doing something as intimate as brushing paint over his body makes him feel like he’s going to explode right out of his skin, but he would be a fool to ever pass this up. Even if he does faint from the blood rushing straight from his head south. “How do you want me?”

They both, mercifully, ignore the accidental double entendre.

“Just– lay on your stomach.” Steve gestures vaguely to the ground, turning to grab a handful of paints and mask the way his cheeks are absolutely _burning_. He doesn’t even know where the idea came from, only knows that he saw the wide expanse of Bucky’s shoulders, the same ones he had painted and drawn time and time again, and desperately wanted to mark it with something of his own. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before—the two of them spent more days in the summer without their shirts than with them—but for some reason, this was different. He ignored the way his hands shook as he grabbed his palette and cup of brushes, setting them down next to Bucky’s prone form. “Put your arms out a bit.” He murmurs, an idea already forming in his head. He focuses on it, grabbing onto it like a lifeline to ignore the way his heart is trying to beat out of his chest for some reason and how his brain is trying to race a million miles an hour.

Bucky closes his eyes, thankful for the cool wood floor against his burning cheek. He almost doesn’t dare to breathe, afraid of spooking Steve off and shattering what must be a dream. He feels too hot, his chest too tight knowing Steve is _right there_. The first brushstroke against his back makes him jump, not ready for the cold bristles against his back. Steve murmurs an apology, moving the brush up and down his back. Bucky’s intensely aware of how vulnerable he is, quite literally laid out for Steve as he brushes paint across his exposed skin. He doesn’t want to think about the intimacy between them right now, the way the smaller brushes drag across his skin slowly, deliberately. He tries to keep as still as possible, even when his skin goosebumps at the feel of Steve’s breath on his neck as he drags a brush down his spine. Everything in him is working on overdrive, his mind short-circuiting at how close Steve is, at what Steve is fucking _doing_ to him.

Steve is almost completely silent above him, only making the slightest noises of appreciation or frustration as he moves from Bucky’s shoulders to his arms. Bucky, for his part, does his best to keep his fingers still and his breathing even. It’s just Steve painting, something he’s seen a million times before. Sure, he’s now currently using Bucky as his own personal canvas and making Bucky feel like he’s about to explode from one-sided sexual longing, but other than that it’s exactly the same.

“Done.”

Bucky almost doesn’t hear Steve’s soft voice over the hammering of his own heart. He stays prone on the ground, finally opening his eyes. “How do I look?”

“I’ll show you. Here, get up.” Steve nudges Bucky’s hip with his foot, already disappearing into Bucky’s room to pull out a full-length mirror. He drags it in front of Bucky before going into the bathroom to grab a smaller, handheld mirror. He watches Bucky as he slowly rises, blinking at the late afternoon light slanting through the blinds. Steve presses the mirror into Bucky’s hand, turning him around so he faces away from the full-length mirror. “See for yourself.”

Bucky turns the mirror in his hand so he can see Steve’s work on his back, his breath hitching as he sees what Steve’s done. His back and arms are a swirl of constellations and stars set against a purple-blue sky. Across the middle of his back and running along his arms is the New York skyline in all of its glittering glory, stretched out fully when Bucky extends his arms out. It’s brilliant, it’s beautiful, and it’s something only Steve would know to paint for him, _on_  him that he wants to cry, wants to swing him around, wants to kiss him silly. He drops the mirror to look at Steve’s expectant, hesitant face.

“It’s perfect.” Bucky breathes, torn between staring at his back and staring at the masterpiece in front of him. Steve flushes under the praise and moves behind Bucky, motioning for him to hold up the mirror again. He motions to two different constellations on Bucky’s back, his finger trailing so lightly against Bucky’s skin that Bucky’s sure he is going to implode right then and there. “Here’s Pisces—that’s you. And here’s Cancer. That’s me. You taught me these ones.”

Bucky remembers. A hot summer night in the park, both of them lying in the grass while Bucky pointed again and again at the sky even though Steve could barely see, pointing out all the constellations they could see. Over the next year, Bucky would drag him out again and again to the fire escape or back to the park, pointing to the sky as the stars shifted and teaching Steve everything he knew.

Bucky smiles, dropping the mirror and turning his head to look at Steve. “It’s incredible, Stevie.” He can’t get his voice above a whisper, doesn’t trust his voice as his throat tightens, heat building behind his eyes. Of course Steve remembered, because Steve remembers everything about Bucky, no matter how big or insignificant. It’s overwhelming and he can barely think through everything happening, let alone formulate the words Steve needs to hear right now. Instead, he holds Steve’s gaze, desperately trying to find something, _anything_ that would make him feel like he isn’t wrong for wanting this. That he isn’t the only one that wants this. Steve doesn’t look away, his own heart picking up at the way Bucky is looking at him. Bucky thinks he sees Steve’s eyes flick towards his lips, but–

“I should go. You probably have a lot of homework.” Steve murmurs, already slipping towards the hallway and putting on his shoes before Bucky can register the loss of him at his back. “See you tomorrow.” There’s an attempt at forced cheerfulness into his voice, as though he didn’t just spend the past hour bent over his best friend’s naked back, painting his heart onto his skin.

Bucky stares at his reflection in the mirror, his pupils blown and splotches of black and blue paint wrapping around his sides. He’s going to have to call someone to help get this off of him. He shouldn’t have looked at him like that—now he’s freaked him out and sent Steve running.

Steve shuts Bucky’s door behind him, leaning against it as he tries to catch his breath. _Holy hell, what has he gotten himself into?_ Somewhere between this morning and right now, a missing puzzle piece had finally slid into place after years of searching for its empty spot. Steve had been trying to deny how Bucky made him feel from the day he met him but he can’t ignore his body now, the way his heart is about to beat right out of his chest just from being too close to his fucking _best friend_. Bucky humored him, just like he always does, but he took it too far. He shouldn’t have used him as a _canvas_ for Christ’s sake—could he be more obvious?

He tips his head back against the apartment door, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as he knocks his head against the door in frustration.

Bucky leans his forehead against the mirror, hitting his head against the glass and cursing himself.

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> p.s. the liquor that howard was talking about from chicago is malört! it's worse than gasoline but it's definitely worth trying if you're ever in the city. kind of ritual of sorts :)
> 
> as always, comments water my crops and keep my skin clear


	6. spring, 1936-1937

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone check out this AMAZING art that [nick](http://twitter.com/616buck) did of rich bucky! GO SUPPORT THE SHIT OUT OF IT BECAUSE IT'S THE BEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN.

_**unfinished portrait of james buchanan barnes by unknown artist, oil on canvas (commissioned by winnifred barnes, 1939)** _

 

* * *

 

“Bucky, come _on_.” Steve resists the very childish urge to stamp his feet, waving the WPA flyer in front of Bucky’s face as though it will drive home his point better.

“I told you, Steve, you don’t have to work. I got a promotion, I’ve been saving for years; hell, you know they’re helping pay for school. After all your ma’s done for me, let me help you guys out.” Bucky lies through his teeth, staring up at the ceiling and trying to count backwards from ten. Steve had graduated in May and wouldn’t enroll in art classes, no matter how many times Bucky offered to pay for them. Instead, he had been standing in long lines at the new agencies FDR had set up, wearing his only suit day in and day out trying to convince someone to hire him. So far, he had been turned away time and time again, no one wanting to take on the guy who looked like he would collapse under the weight of a 2x4. The nice woman at the CWA had, however, given him a flyer for Federal Project Number One, an art initiative to hire artists from all disciplines to enrich the country. Employment, she said, was open through the Federal Art Project to paint murals throughout New York City. It was perfect for him and he had nearly tripped over himself running back to Bucky to show him, but Bucky wouldn’t have any of it.

“Steve, you don’t need to work. You’re just gonna worry your ma if you take a job where you gotta hang off a ladder all day.” Bucky grabs the flyer from Steve’s hands, squinting at the crumpled paper. “It doesn’t even pay that well. And outside? Steve, it’s hotter than Hades right now and you want to be outside?”

Steve just glares at Bucky, folding his arms over his chest and standing his ground. “I’m not going to melt, Bucky. I’m not in school anymore and I sure as hell am not going to sit around while my mom works her ass off to keep the apartment! You work, why can’t I?”

“Yeah? And what happens when winter rolls around and you’re stuck out in the freezing cold just so you can prove a point? What happens if you get sick again, huh?” Bucky runs a hand through his hair, tugging the strands out of the gel in frustration.

“I’m not going to break, Bucky.” Steve bites back, hands balling into fists at his side like he’s gearing up for a fight. And _Christ_ , Bucky thinks, why does it always have to end in a fight with him?

“And I’m not going to fucking stand by and watch you almost _die_ again!”

They’re both startled into silence, staring at each other with wide eyes. Bucky never raises his voice—not to the maids or cooks, not his family, and certainly not to Steve. Steve’s always the one that snaps first, all that righteous fire inside of him always only seconds away from igniting. Bucky’s always been the cool to his hot, the one to pull him back from the edge or getting his ass kicked on the street.

Bucky stands there mortified, the fear he’s been carrying around like a rock in his chest for years finally spilling out of him in terrified anger. He can’t stand to almost lose Steve like that again, hates how his brush with death only gets scarier the more Bucky learns about illnesses and the human body. He now knows just how much Sarah was hiding to protect Bucky, still has nightmares about losing Steve like that. This isn’t about Steve getting a job, not really—it’s about Bucky’s fear of not having control over the things that matter most to him. He can’t control his feelings for Steve, can’t control how Steve responds to them, can’t control the world around him that makes him hide in shame for who he is, can’t control the fact that Steve is far more susceptible to harm than he ever thinks he is, can’t control the fact that his future is confusing and grey. He’s used to everything being within a snap of his fingers, and he hates the growing pains of learning that the world does not always cater to his whims. He hates not being able to wrestle the outcome of things into what he wants, even less so now that he has his heart in the game. He’s scared. He’s so fucking scared.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky’s quiet, sighing softly and running his fingers through his hair again. “I just–”

“It’s fine, Buck.” Steve, for his part, can’t meet Bucky’s eyes. He’s more than startled at Bucky’s outburst and can’t seem to stop his heart from racing at how the only thing that’s caused Bucky to crack like that is Steve’s health. He still doesn’t remember much from when he had pneumonia, or much from the other times he came down with a fever, but he didn’t think Bucky had been _that_ worried. Scared, sure, but not so much that he was still holding onto it over three years later. He knew, of course, that Bucky cared about him and his well-being; it was hard not to after four years of being best friends. But this kind of fierce protectiveness was new; it was something that settled in his stomach and spread like warm honey and made his heart rate pick up. He knew it was nothing, just Bucky being the mother hen he always had been around Steve, but he couldn’t help himself from wishing it was from something more.

“I just want you to be careful. You aren’t invincible.” Bucky admits quietly, trying to catch Steve’s eye.

“Neither are you.” Steve shoots back automatically, an almost-pout in his voice. The edge of Bucky’s lips pull up as he knocks his fist gently against Steve’s arm.

“Never said I was, punk.”

 

* * *

 

Steve, stubborn as always, applied for the job anyway.

Bucky wondered if he should start getting his blood pressure checked out.

Still, Bucky knew he couldn’t feasibly keep Steve from doing anything he had his heart set on, and was comforted by the fact that Steve got to do what he loved for a living. Steve largely worked mornings and afternoons, leaving his evenings free to help Sarah out around the house and sit with Bucky as he studied formulas Steve couldn’t even begin to start understanding. Steve spent hours up late with Bucky before finals, thumbing through a book that weighed more than he did and drilling Bucky on chemistry terms and basic biology. When school let out for the summer, the two of them spent their evenings sneaking into movie theaters and bars, pretending that their hands didn’t brush in the popcorn bucket or that Steve didn’t hang off of Bucky when they stumbled home after one too many drinks. They were reckless and ridiculous and Bucky finally felt like he could take a breath.

And then Sarah started to cough up blood.

 

* * *

 

It started in August, only a few months after Sarah was transferred to the TB ward—a position she was given for her years of being known as the gentlest nurse. She had come home late from work, attributing the exhaustion deep in her bones to the 18 hour shifts she had been running that week. She had tried to muffle a coughing fit with a dish rag, knowing that Steve was asleep already and not wanting to wake him. She wasn’t prepared for the splatter of bright red blood against the dish rag, the fate she had dodged in famine-swept Ireland, the medic camps during the Great War, and the sanitariums of the 20s, finally come to claim her. She had pressed a shaking hand to her mouth, trying to muffle a sob when the light came on, her son behind her staring at the rag in her hand, blinking away sleep from his eyes.

“Mom?”

 

* * *

 

In a matter of seconds, Steve’s world had come crashing down upon him. It was funny, he thought, how different his life became in the span of a breath. Here was the before, when he had a good job, a best friend he was enamored with, a mother he owed his entire life to, and a future that looked much brighter than the average New Yorker. And now here was the after, the most important woman in his life lying pale in a hospital bed she used to tend to. Here was the after, where none of the doctors could tell him if she was going to make it out of there. Here was his mother, the woman who had given him life and raised him herself after his father had died before he was even born, the woman who had taken care of him through almost two decades of sickness and poverty. She had nursed him through scarlet fever and the common cold and pneumonia and every scraped knee and black eye and now Steve was absolutely powerless to nurse her back to health.

Bucky didn’t know.

The semester had just begun, a chaotic swirl as Bucky tried to get in the swing of a regular class schedule again. He hadn’t seen Steve that week—not unusual, since Steve knew that he would be busy with homework and adjusting back—and was looking forward to being able to spend the weekend together. He had gotten them tickets to an off-Broadway show, not wanting to risk the suspicion of getting him actual Broadway tickets, and was going to ask Steve if he would take him to see his latest project on a post office mural in Queens. It wasn’t a date, Bucky kept telling himself, just a very carefully-planned out evening together. Not a date. He reminds himself of this fact once more as he turns his key in the lock, shouldering the door.

“Steve?” He notices Steve’s shoes by the door, the vague sense that he isn’t alone in the apartment. But he isn’t in the living room, reading or sketching by the late afternoon light, nor does Bucky get a response.

“Steve, are you here?” He tries again, setting down his messenger bag on the table, walking into his bedroom. Steve’s curled up on the left side of the bed—the side Bucky always sleeps on—and Bucky breathes out the tension that had been coiling in his stomach; Steve had probably come over after work and had fallen asleep waiting for Bucky to get home. Bucky smiles, moving to wake him up when he stops dead in his tracks, because Steve is awake. Awake and staring at the wall like he hasn’t even noticed Bucky, his eyes hollow in a way Bucky has never seen before. It scares the absolute shit out of him.

“Steve?” Bucky tries for a third time, lowering his voice like he’s talking to a scared alley cat. “Hey, what happened?” He rests a hand on Steve’s shoulder, crouching down to look Steve in the eyes. Steve still doesn’t move, not even a flicker of recognition in his eyes as Bucky squeezes his shoulder—it knocks something loose in Bucky and his anxiety spikes. “Steve, please talk to me. What happened? Are you hurt?” Every horrible scenario runs through his mind, his mind using what little medical knowledge it had to try and figure out what Steve could have.

“Ma’s got TB.” Steve’s voice is rough and as flat at his eyes.

Bucky feels like he’s been punched in the solar plexus, trying to suck in air that won’t come. Bucky falls into an awful silence, his ears ringing and mind reeling. He can’t imagine Sarah, the human embodiment of the sun, being ill—hasn’t seen her with anything more than a head cold in the four years that he’s known her. He loves Sarah just as much as he loves his own mother, would buy her the world and then some if he thought she would expect it. He knew that tuberculosis diagnoses weren’t mortal sentences, but the odds were still too unbalanced for comfort. A high-class sanatorium was out of the question for their budget and Bucky’s mind was already moving a million miles an hour trying to find a way to get her into one.

Bucky rocks back on his heels, staring at the blanket on his bed like it’ll give him some kind of answer. His brain scrambles to find some kind of response, something, _anything_ that will make this better. But there aren’t words to make this better and nothing Bucky says will mean a damn thing in the face of Steve’s world crashing down around him, so he doesn’t talk. He climbs into bed, pulling Steve until he’s curled into Bucky, his face pressed against Bucky’s neck. Bucky just holds him, running a hand up and down his spine like how his mother did when he was younger and afraid of the dark. He wishes he could do more, wishes he could take the pain from Steve, put the stars back in his eyes. He murmurs platitudes against the top of Steve’s head, nonsensical things neither of them are sure are true like _it’ll be okay_ and _she’ll get better she’s strong like you_. It’s enough, though, for Steve to hear the rumble of Bucky’s voice, as familiar as a sunset, and he breaks quietly in his arms. Bucky feels the tears pool against his collarbone, Steve shaking silently against him as he comes undone underneath him. Bucky can do nothing but hold him. And so he does.

 

* * *

 

Bucky gets Sarah into one of New York’s top sanatoriums under the guise of exchanging free treatment for testing an experimental drug. Steve didn’t even question it, just crossed himself when the doctor told him the news and called his boss to renegotiate his hours. Sarah was moved to the sanatorium shortly thereafter, and both Bucky and Steve were hopeful that the crisp September air would help her recover quickly. At minimum, Sarah would be in the sanatorium for at least a year under quarantine, which meant one year without the Rogers’ main source of income. Steve made better money than he could’ve hoped for with the WPA, but the jobs were inconsistent and money only came through after weeks of working on a mural. Bucky had tried to bring it up several times, promising that he could take care of things while Sarah was sick, but Steve always cut him off. Still, Bucky brought over groceries to his apartment while Steve was at work and did his best to help out where he could, pressed a stack of bills into the sanatorium ward’s palm every week.

It wasn’t enough.

Steve was starting to hollow out in front of his eyes, going from the sanatorium to work and back with little to no sleep and spending barely any time for himself. Both Sarah and Bucky were terrified that he would wear himself down and catch tuberculosis himself, but Steve’s stubbornness won out every time. Bucky eventually had to start bribing the nurses to bar Steve from visiting at specific hours, forcing him to go home and sleep once in a while, much to Steve’s frustration. Days later, they had caught Steve trying to sneak in through the nurse’s entrance in the back, and the ward had to call Bucky to remove him from the property. Steve sulked the entire way home, refusing to meet Bucky’s eyes on the subway as they clattered towards Brooklyn, his shoulders hunched all the way up to his shoulders like they always did when he was upset.

“C’mon, Stevie, it’s just for tonight. You can go visit in the morning.” Bucky nudges him up the stairs, trying his best to keep the strain out of his voice. He wanted to yell at Steve for being stupid enough to try and sneak into a _sanatorium_ , jeopardizing his mother’s ability to stay and narrowly getting him arrested. But he had been watching Steve waste away for the past month with worry and guilt and Bucky didn’t have the heart to properly chastise him. Always the fucking martyr, he knew that Steve felt like this was somehow his fault, as though he could control the spread of diseases through how good he was that day. Maybe that’s how the Catholics did it—Bucky wasn’t quite sure.

Steve huffs in response, trying to jam his key into the door with shaking hands when they reach the top of the stairs. He slams his fist against the door in frustration, dropping the key. Bucky’s on it in an instant, resting a hand on Steve’s back and bending down to get the key. He inches Steve aside and unlocks the door for him, pushing it open and handing the key back. Steve just glares at him, shoving the key into his jacket pocket and stomping into the apartment. “I can open my own damn doors, Bucky.”

Bucky shuts the door behind them, slipping off his shoes and blowing a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. “Steve, look at me.” He grabs Steve’s arm, tugging at him until he’s got his attention. “You don’t have to do everything yourself. I know you aren’t helpless, so don’t start with that bullshit again, but you aren’t alone. Let me help.” He lets go of Steve’s bicep, almost pleading with him now. “You’re going to run yourself into the ground and I can’t risk losing both of you. You know she’d kill both of us if you got sick now because you couldn’t stop your worryin’.” He tries a smile, a small thing that Steve’s can’t quite mirror.

“I’m fine.” Steve drops Bucky’s gaze, the lie sounding unbelievable even to his own ears.

“When’s the last time you ate a full meal and slept for a good eight hours?”

Silence.

Bucky sighs, hanging up his jacket and heading into the kitchen. “I’m making dinner. You’re going to go lie down and take a little nap. I’ll wake you up when it’s ready.”

Steve just stares at him, the fight already rising in him again.

“Don’t you cross your arms.” Bucky points a spoon at him in warning. “There’s nothing you can do until the morning, so you might as well catch up on your beauty rest. You definitely need it.” He tries to pull a smirk out of Steve, almost succeeding and getting Steve’s lips to twitch. Bucky counts it as a win.

“If sleep made you beautiful, you’d be pretty as a filly.” Steve remarks with a mirthless smirk, narrowly dodging the spoon Bucky chucks at his head as he disappears into his bedroom. He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but the second he closes his eyes he’s out like a light. He wakes up to a gentle shake of his shoulders and an amazing smell, Bucky leaning over him with a look on his face that cuts through the walls Steve has been putting up around him for the past month.

“Dinner’s ready.” Bucky says softly, straightening and giving Steve the space he needs to fully wake up. Steve pads out to the main room, rubbing his eyes and following the smell of food. Bucky’s laid out two healthy plates of a pasta dish, a salad sitting in the middle beside two glasses of wine. He’s also gotten the record player to work, the fickle thing that was supposedly Steve’s father that Sarah swore had a mind of its own. Steve blinks, not completely sure he’s not still dreaming.

“Where did all of this come from?” He asks dumbly, sitting down in the chair Bucky points to.

“If you would come home once in a while, you’d see that I’ve been stockin’ your fridge. You can’t starve on me now. Now eat, it’ll get cold.” Bucky points at his food, sliding into his own chair and taking a long drink of wine.

“What is this?” Steve asks around a mouthful of food, closing his eyes in pleasure. As much as he hates being in this apartment—it feels wrong without his mother here—he really should let Bucky cook more often.

“It’s Italian.” Bucky responds automatically, pausing halfway to lifting his fork to his mouth. “I think. Something like that.” His ears pink, shoving a forkful of pasta into his mouth to prevent him from saying anything more. Steve doesn’t notice, too busy inhaling his food as he realizes how _hungry_ he is; he knows he hasn’t been taking the best care of himself lately, but he couldn’t stop to think about it. He needed his mom to be okay, needed her to get over this just like Steve had gotten over scarlet fever and pneumonia and every other head cold that went south too quickly. She had given everything for him—the least Steve could do was keep vigil by her bedside when the tables turned.

They eat in silence, Steve too inside of his own head and Bucky too busy watching him intently, like if he just stared long enough, he would figure out how to make Steve slow down. It isn’t until Steve finishes off his glass of wine and the last of his salad that he starts up the nervous habits Bucky has become intimately familiar with—tapping his fingers against the table, chewing his lip raw, his eyes flicking around the room like he’s mapping out possible exits. Bucky pushes away from the table, holding out his hand to Steve. “C’mon, I’ll teach you how to dance.”

Steve scrunches up his face in confusion, looking at Bucky as though he’s grown a second head. “What?”

“Dancing, Steve. It’s what people do when they’re out? You move your feet back and forth? Surely you’ve heard of it.” Bucky prods, earning him an eye roll.

“Why?”

“Your mug won’t always be enough to pick up the dames.” Bucky cocks an eyebrow, pulling Steve to his feet. “I think it’s high time you learned how to dance.” What he really needs is for Steve to _relax_ for a night, to keep his mind on something that isn’t the fact that his mother is dying on the other side of the city. Steve frowns but allows himself to be pulled up, looking at Bucky like he’s a puzzle he doesn’t have all of the pieces for.

“You know how to dance?”

The truth is that Bucky has grown up around professional dancers his whole life, was the charming little boy that they whisked around the dance floor until he screamed with delight. His formative years were spent in the 20s, learning how to swing dance as soon as he learned how to walk and taught how to lead a girl around the dance floor before he even knew why. He loved dancing, loved being able to translate music into motion—it was like magic to him. But all of that was impossible to explain to Steve, so he just shrugs and extends a hand towards Steve. “More or less.”

Bucky is a patient teacher, his head cocked to the side while he listens to the beat and tries to lead Steve in tandem. Steve is still bewildered, still trying to catch up from Bucky plying him with delicious food and wine before teaching him how to dance. He should be at the hospital with his mom, reading to her out of a poetry book that once belonged to his father. He shouldn’t be enjoying himself on a full belly as Bucky pulls and pushes at him, murmuring instructions on where to place his feet. But it’s hard to pay attention to anything other than trying to keep up with Bucky and remember if he’s supposed to step forward or back, and eventually everything else falls away. It’s just him, Bucky, and a record of Billie Holiday scratching through the phonograph as he walks them through the steps of a waltz. On some level, he knows that this all would look very strange to an outsider, but he can’t seem to bring himself to feel weird about it; this feels right, just him and Bucky against the world like it’s always been. The selfish part of him loves the way they sway together, wants to close his eyes and pretend that Bucky is taking him out dancing. He wants to pretend that this means something more than just Bucky trying to take his mind off of everything, that there’s a chance in hell that Bucky could ever love him back and that they would ever stand a chance in a world hell-bent on destroying people like Steve.

Bucky spins Steve around again, throwing Steve off balance and sending him careening towards the ratty couch with a yelp. Bucky grabs his hand at the last second, yanking him back and crashing him into Bucky’s chest instead. They stumble against each other, Bucky nearly falling over and instinctively wrapping his arms around Steve to protect him. They stand there in silence, Bucky absolutely mortified that he almost threw Steve into the couch and Steve trying very hard to stay calm while pressed up against Bucky’s solid chest. “Steve, I–” Bucky starts, sounding properly ashamed before he’s cut off by Steve shaking against him. Steve snorts, only making himself laugh harder as he throws his arms around Bucky’s middle and squeezes.

“And you were worried about me stepping on your feet.” He teases, his words muffled by Bucky’s shirt. “You dumb lug.”

Bucky visibly relaxes, rolling his eyes and resting his chin on Steve’s head. “Well maybe if y’had been paying attention. But I do have a tendency to sweep people off their feet.” Steve can hear the smirk in his voice and he jabs Bucky in the side with a finger, suddenly very glad that Bucky can’t see his burning face. They fall into a familiar, comfortable silence, both of them lost in separate thoughts of the other.

“She needs to get better.” Steve mumbles against Bucky’s stomach, taking a shaky breath.

Bucky tightens his arms around Steve, sighing softly. “I know, Stevie. I know.”

 

* * *

 

 _”O love is the crooked thing,_  
_There is nobody wise enough_  
_To find out all that is in it,_  
_For he would be thinking of love_  
_Till the stars had run away”_

Steve’s lilting voice carries through the room, the book of Yeats poetry open on his lap as he reads.

“That was your father’s favorite poem.” Sarah says, her voice weak and raw from the coughing fits that weren’t getting any better. Bucky and Steve both still, silently willing her to continue. Steve knew that his father had died during the Great War before he was born and Steve had inherited his eyes, but little else; Sarah never spoke of Joseph. “He used to end his letters to me with that line. _‘For he would be thinking of love till the stars had run away’_. Ever the sap, he was.” She looks at Bucky, her forehead creasing in thought. “Steve, love, why don’t you run and get some of those Polish doughnuts I like? These damn nurses won’t stop talking about how good the bakery down the street is and I’m tired of eating unsalted food.”

Steve starts, realizing too late that he’s got a death grip on the book in his lap. “Did the doctor say–”

“Steven, I’ve been a nurse longer than you’ve been alive. I can have a doughnut. Don’t worry, Bucky will keep me company.” She smiles too sweetly at Bucky, shifting up in her bed. “Right, Bucky?”

“Yeah, of course.” He stumbles over his words, suddenly nervous at the way Sarah’s looking at him. “Here, Steve, get a dozen.” He digs in his pocket, tossing a crumpled dollar bill his way. “Don’t argue.” He points at him as Steve opens his mouth, earning him a silent glare in response.

Steve hesitates at the door, watching his mother like she might disappear if he didn’t focus all of his attention on her. “I’ll be right back, ma.”

Sarah just waves him off, closing her eyes and tipping her head against the back of her bed when he leaves. Pain floods back into her features, whatever front she was putting on for Steve’s sake dissolving in an instant. “Do you need anything?” Bucky starts, but he’s cut off by a hand.

“I know what you’ve been hiding.” She says, her hand dropping back to the bed.

Bucky freezes, something like ice crawling down his spine. She couldn’t know about him and Steve—he had been keeping the longing glances to a minimum after Howard had called him out for being too obvious. Had it been the way he looked at Steve when he was reading the poem? His brain frantically ran through his last week of interactions with Steve, realizing with a sickening start that he’d have to go back to how he’d been acting since 1932 to see when Sarah realized that he was in love with her son. She was going to kick him out, ban him from seeing Steve ever again, tell Steve about his perversions and make him hate Bucky forever. “What?” He dumbly stammers out, wondering how the room got so hot in October.

“Steve is smart, but he’s always been blind when it comes to you.” She sighs, opening her eyes to glance over at Bucky. “Come now, Bucky, you haven’t been nearly as subtle as you think you’ve been. I’ve been able to smell the money off of you from a mile away since the day you came home with him.”

Bucky relaxes, then stiffens immediately, a new panic threatening to overtake him. _Fuck._ “I don’t–”

“James Buchanan Barnes, eldest son of the man that just happens to own the Met and the woman who is in the will of the richest man in the world.” She cocks an eyebrow, looking quite unimpressed. “Your family practically has its own gossip section in the newspaper every month. You come into a tenement in the middle of the country’s worst economic crisis wearing a three piece suit and suddenly our rent gets cut in half, Steve starts winning things from the Met itself, and there’s always sugar in our pantry. When Steve is sick, medicine mysteriously appears and doctors are suddenly generous with their free time. You’re barely out of high school and you have your own apartment and money to spare, and I mysteriously was invited to New York’s best sanatorium for an experimental treatment I have yet to receive.” She smiles wryly at Bucky, the exact mirror to Steve’s, and closes her eyes again. “For all that education and money, you never learned how to be sly.”

Bucky stares at her, open-mouthed. It isn’t his worst nightmare, but it’s coming pretty close. “How–”

“I just told you how. You’re lucky my son has a blind spot for you.”

Bucky is silent for a few beats, staring down at his hands. “Why didn’t you tell him? Or me?”

“It isn’t my secret to tell.” Sarah opens her eyes to meet his gaze, her voice softer. “Misguided as you’ve been, you’ve never treated us like charity cases. I see the way you look at him—I know you care about him. Even if you’re hiding this from him, you’re the first person he’s had apart from me; I’m not going to be the one to tear you two apart.”

Bucky swallows his response, Sarah’s words weighing on him like an anvil. _I’m not going to be the one to tear you two apart._ No, that would be Bucky, destroying his own happiness because of a lie he constructed on a whim four years ago. He was never supposed to keep it up, was never supposed to fall in love with the kid he saved from an ass beating. Sarah knew, and it was only a matter of time now until Steve pieced it together.

“Why are you telling me now?” He asks, hating the way his voice strained around his tightening throat.

“I’m not getting better, Bucky.” She whispers it, as though she’s afraid of putting the inevitable into the universe. She rests her hand on top of his, squeezing it gently. “You need to take care of him. You have to promise you’ll take care of him.”

Bucky’s heart beats in his throat, tears burning behind his eyes. “No, you’re going to get better, Sarah. You have to get better.”

“Promise me.” She repeats, sharper this time. She squeezes his hand again, insistent and bordering on desperation. “Don’t leave him.”

“I promise.” Bucky rasps out, swallowing around the lump lodged in his throat. “I won’t leave.” He admits, squeezing his eyes hard to stop the tears.

“You did the best you could, Bucky. For me, for him. And...thank you.” She looks almost pained to say it, muscling past her stubborn independence to accept help.

 _Just like Steve._ Bucky thinks, doing nothing to help the way his body is screaming at him to cry.

“Don’t leave him. Don’t leave us.” He pleads, so quietly he isn’t sure she hears him.

Steve comes back at that moment, his face red from the wind and proudly holding a box of pączki. Bucky swallows his pain, grins at Steve, and refuses to take back his change.

 

* * *

 

In the end, the disease she had helped countless others through burned through Sarah Rogers like fire and left nothing in its wake but a corpse and a bill from the sanatorium that Bucky took care of behind Steve’s back. He had held her hand and watched the life leave his mother in front of his eyes, was unable to process that the woman he loved more than anything in the world was suddenly gone. Bucky held Steve back as they removed her body from the room, taking the blows Steve landed with his elbows and fists on Bucky’s arms and chest as he screamed and screamed. He took the curses Steve hurled at him, at God, at the doctors and the whole damn world. And once he had burned himself out, Bucky carried him to his own apartment and tucked him between the sheets of Bucky’s bed. He let him sleep for fourteen hours straight, carding his fingers through his hair as he slept and wishing more than anything in the world that he could smooth the crease between his brows that wouldn’t smooth out, even in sleep.

When he woke up, his eyes were the flat, dull blue that scared Bucky to death. He didn’t fight Bucky when he plied him with soup and bread, or when he told Steve he was covering the funeral and burial costs. He just stared dully ahead, barely responding to Bucky’s questions and refusing to talk at length about Sarah. Bucky was frantic and out of his element, trying to keep himself together for Steve while mourning the loss of a mother figure that had loved him even through the lies. His money hadn’t been able to save her, nothing he did had been enough to save her; now Steve only had Bucky and an apartment full of his mother’s old things. Sarah had made Bucky promise that he would never leave Steve, but the truth of it was that Bucky _couldn’t_ leave Steve, a fact of the universe as incontestable as gravity. He was bound to him, Steve a personal sun that he couldn’t imagine ever not orbiting around. He loved him and would tear himself apart if it meant that Steve would smile, something that became increasingly obvious as the days passed without any emotion for Steve.

The funeral was a small affair, only a handful of nurses and doctors from the hospital Sarah worked at in attendance alongside Steve and Bucky. The priest might have said something about death not being the end, or maybe tried to guilt them all into converting to Catholicism; Bucky didn’t hear a word, his eyes trained on Steve the entire time. When they lowered her into the ground, next to the father he never knew, Bucky kept his hand on Steve’s shoulder, a pitiful gesture compared to the way Bucky wanted to wrap himself around Steve until they couldn’t decipher where one of them started and the other ended. And when Steve fell to his knees, his fingers pressing into the fresh dirt and shaking with silent, dry sobs, Bucky was there, wrapping an arm around him and holding vigil over him.

Bucky has never been a religious person, but he curses God that night as Steve’s breathing evens out next to him.

_How dare You make him suffer._

 

* * *

 

“No.” Steve doesn’t even look up from the magazine he’s flipping through, trying to get a sense of the advertisements’ art style. He knows the WPA job won’t hold out forever and has been looking for something to hold him over as he looks for something more permanent.

Bucky sighs in frustration, hauling himself up from the table with a little more force than necessary. “You practically live here now, Steve. There isn’t any reason why you can’t just move in with me. You’re only torturing yourself and draining your pocketbook if you stay there.” They’ve had this argument a dozen times since Sarah died, Bucky pushing for them to move in together to save money. Steve can barely stand to be in the apartment anymore, the memories still too fresh after six months, but he can’t bring himself to move out of the last place he shared with his mother. They both know that it’s only a matter of time until Steve’s money runs out and he’s evicted, the landlord too smart to pass up the opportunity to list a two bedroom. He won’t take Bucky’s help, but Bucky would take the stubborn fire over the hollow look in his eyes that haunted him for weeks after Sarah died.

“Steve, look around you. People are squeezed ten people to an apartment and you’re not even living in one that has two perfectly good bedrooms.” Bucky knows it’s mean, to use Steve’s good heart against him like this, but he _needs_ to force Steve’s hand. If he doesn’t, he’s going to land himself on the street with all of his mother’s few belongings tossed onto the sidewalk like trash. Bucky has been in the Rogers’ apartment more than Steve has in the months since Sarah died and he knows Steve will never be able to live there again without breaking. He promised Sarah he would take care of him and _dammit_ , he wasn’t going to let Steve become homeless due to his bullheaded stubbornness.

His lecture, at least, gets Steve to shut up for long enough that Bucky knows Steve’s at least heard him. “Look,” He tries, his voice softer. “I make enough that I can carry us through, even if you lose your job with the WPA. We can move wherever you want, or stay in Brooklyn—it’s up to you. There’s plenty of cheap places on the market now.” It wasn’t a total lie, the apartments he had been looking at _were_ cheap to Bucky.

Steve continues flipping through the magazine, though Bucky knows him well enough by now to know that he isn’t paying attention to the pages at all. “Something small. Nearby.” He concedes, not meeting Bucky’s eyes. He knows that Bucky’s savings must be drained after the funeral, too ashamed of his own inability to function immediately after his mother’s death that he can’t even apologize. But whatever they’ll get has to be better than what he’s been shelling out for his old apartment, which was currently taking his entire paycheck. Him and Bucky have been talking about getting their own apartment for years, but the prospect is suddenly terrifying now that it can become a reality. Visiting Bucky was one thing, but living full-time with the man he was head-over-heels in love with seemed like an impossible task. But he was running out of time and excuses to counter Bucky’s damn puppy dog eyes he gave him when he asked Steve why he couldn’t live with him.

“Of course.” Bucky all but stumbles over himself to reassure Steve, waving his hands around ineffectually. “We can go look whenever you’re free. I have a few places I’ve been looking at, y’know, from the papers.”

“And I get a say on where we stay. Nowhere where I can’t afford, no matter what your fancy schmancy job pays you.” He warns, flipping the magazine closed. “We’re equals.”

Bucky just nods, swallowing the argument that’s trying to claw its way up his throat. “Whatever you want, Stevie.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky’s eating his words later on as Steve insists on a shitty one bedroom apartment that was well within Steve’s budget even before Bucky told the landlord he would pay most of the rent himself. He’s positive that the heat won’t work when winter comes around and swears up and down that he saw a rat in the bathtub, but Steve won’t be budged. The other apartments were, in Steve’s words, “too good to be true” for the price that Bucky had manipulated down so Steve would take. Bucky digs his heels in and tells that no way in hell is he moving into _that_. But when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, Steve Rogers ends up winning. Which is how Bucky sweats through his several shirts lugging Steve’s furniture up four flights of stairs and making the best use of a space that Bucky’s convinced is the size of a solitary confinement cell. But Steve is happy enough, which is all that’s ever mattered, and Bucky sucks up the fact that he might see a cockroach every time he turns on the shower and the fact that he can hear their damn neighbors every time they move around.

They move Bucky’s bed into the apartment, which takes up nearly the entire sorry excuse for a bedroom, both of them realizing a little too late that there’s only one bed. Steve’s about to open his mouth to volunteer to sleep on the couch when Bucky shrugs, punching Steve in the arm lightly as he walks back to the main room. “Well, guess it’s good we’re used to sharing a bed.” Steve’s glad Bucky can’t see the way his whole face reddens. Bucky walks into the kitchen and presses his forehead against the refrigerator door, desperately trying to calm his racing heart.

_You’ve really fucking done it now, Barnes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the poem steve is reading to sarah is brown penny by william butler yeats


	7. winter, 1937-fall 1938

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all! i missed you lots. enjoy!

“ _Fuck_.” Bucky swears under his breath, kicking the radiator with enough force to send vibrations through the walls. Snow had started blowing through weeks ago, but Bucky had made sure that the landlord was compensated handsomely for keeping the heat on high the whole winter. Still, the freezing mid-December temperatures had taken out the whole neighborhood’s heating, the boiler pipes bursting across Brooklyn because of the cold. They were told, even with all of Bucky’s under-the-table offers of money, that the problem wouldn’t be able to be fixed until the cold snap passed, leaving Bucky to take out his frustration on the now-useless radiator. He was worried about how it would affect Steve, already so predisposed to catching cold on his commute to Manhattan, and Bucky was _tired_ of being cold. He had avoided most of the true discomfort that came with poverty for the past five years, the cold meaning little more to him than the possibility for skiing in upstate New York. But now, stuck in the godforsaken apartment he didn’t want in the first place, he didn’t have another apartment to escape to, couldn’t go back to his family home without raising alarm, and was feeling like a rat trapped in a maze.

But, he realized in a moment of clarity, he didn’t have to deal with any of this. He could go home, lie under the thick down comforters in his childhood room and have someone stoke the fireplace for him all night. He didn’t have to stay in a too-small apartment that would make his mother faint if she stepped foot inside on a good day; he didn’t have to be the one to break the news to Steve that their heating was out for the foreseeable future. The frustrating combination of the new semester, more work from Howard, getting used to the shitty apartment, and now the fact that he had to wear gloves _indoors_ was driving him over the edge. He had always been the level-headed one in their duo, but he was finding it harder and harder to hold onto patience when the apartment he so heavily protested in the first place was now turning into a damn icebox. He could deal with a lot— _had_ dealt with a lot in the last five years to keep up his image with Steve, but he was positive he was reaching his breaking point.

“What’d she do to you?” Bucky whirls at the voice, not realizing Steve had walked through the door, his arms full of loose canvas. He quirks an eyebrow at Bucky, his eyes betraying only the slightest hint of worry at Bucky’s disheveled appearance. Bucky makes a vain attempt to smooth the hair down on his head, all too aware of his penchant for pulling on his hair until it nearly stood on end when he was frustrated.

“Heat’s out.” He all but growls, waving his hand at the radiator. “Asked the landlord ‘bout it but it ended up being a trip for biscuits because the whole damn neighborhood is out. Did you know it can get too fuckin’ cold for the heat to work? ‘Cause that’s news to me.” Bucky knows he’s pacing, knows that his hands are in his hair again, mussing the style he so meticulously gelled this morning, but he can’t help it. It’s only been half a day without heat and already he’s entertaining the idea of putting them up in a hotel on the other side of town until this gets fixed. He’ll figure out an excuse for why he has money to stay in a hotel for that long later, but he’s certain that if he spends another minute in this freezer he’ll go batty.

“Bucky.” Steve’s voice cuts through the whirlwind in Bucky’s mind, pulling him up short as he stops pacing a groove in the floor. “It’s okay, I’ve done this before. Back when I was five or six, there was a whole month where we didn’t get heat because ma had lost her job and we couldn’t pay.” Steve trails off, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat at the thought of Sarah. He focuses instead on the worrying fact that Bucky seems about two minutes away from swinging at the first person who looks at him funny. “We’ll just keep our coats on inside, run the oven a little more than usual to get some heat in here. I mean, we’ll only be here really at night between work and school, so it’ll be okay.” Steve drops the canvas on the table and spreads his hands, walking towards Bucky almost like he’s approaching a spooked animal. “We’ll be okay, Buck.”

Bucky hates how easily Steve accepts this part of his life, how lacking necessities becomes an inevitability rather than an anomaly. He hates that he can’t just tell Steve that they’re going back to his family mansion, that he’ll pile down comforters onto him until he’s warm all the way through his toes. Hates that he can, but that he knows Steve will walk out on him immediately. But he can already feel some of the fight drain from his body, hating the fact that he’s the one that’s put the crease between Steve’s brows this time. He takes a deep breath, shaking his head as though it’ll help the fact that Steve’s already visibly shivering in the room and Bucky can’t feel the tips of his fingers.

“Yeah, you’re right.” He sighs, trying for a smile.

“I usually am.”

They end up hanging near the stove the rest of the day, Bucky for once grateful for the ugly vapor stove that required more coal than he was willing to haul up the stairs during the winter. But when night falls, they quickly realize that they can’t just leave the stove on and unattended all night, despite Steve’s valiant efforts at convincing Bucky he could watch over it all night. They instead pile on even more clothes, crawling under the heavy quilt of Sarah’s that does little to keep out the chill now. Now that they aren’t hovering over a heat source, Bucky can feel the cold start to seep into his bones again, uncomfortable to the point where doubts he’ll be able to sleep like this. What’s worse is that he can feel the bed start to shake—just slightly—as Steve does his best to control his shivering on the opposite side. Before he even has time to think about it, he’s scooting closer to Steve, pulling him against his chest and throwing an arm around his middle to keep him there. He knows that this is wrong, that boys don’t do this, that Steve might pull away and look at him like he’s disgusting and broken. But he can’t make himself care, not when Steve is cold and Bucky is tired and freezing and when the lines of what’s acceptable are blurred under the cover of darkness.

Steve stiffens in surprise, caught between the sudden pang of grief from remembering the way his mother used to do this to him on cold nights and the sudden thrill of Bucky pulling him in like this. He feels like he might burst out of his skin, but he doesn’t dare move, too afraid now to make Bucky second-guess his actions. He tries steadying his breath, his mind working overtime to rationalize it all—the heat is out, and Bucky is being very practical by making sure they are sharing their body heat. He’s sure there’s a scientific reason behind it, something that would make Bucky arrive to this conclusion out of something entirely separate from wanting to be closer to Steve. This is nothing more than sharing body heat to stay warm through the night, just Bucky being chivalrous and caring like he always is, both frustrating and melting Steve in tandem. He isn’t going to let his mind run away with dreaming about what this happening under different circumstances, and he sure as hell isn’t going to let his body get the best of him, regardless of the layers.

So they both stay silent, screwing their eyes closed and trying their best to not think about how close the other is. Sleeping in the same bed was nothing new after spending virtually all their time together for the past five years; being this close for this long, however, made sweat break out on the napes of their necks despite the cold. For right now, when it’s quiet and cold and there’s a dozen layers between them, they can pretend that this is how it might be, if things were different. This is how it might be, if loving men the way men loved women was okay, if Steve wanted Bucky and Bucky wanted Steve. This is how it might be, quiet and curled up against each other after a long day of them against the world, just like it had always been, like it always might be. They both knew they would never be able to have it, but there was no harm in dreaming that it all could be possible.

In the morning, Steve untangles himself from Bucky’s arms before he wakes up, making coffee and reading the paper in his winter coat by the stove. When Bucky walks out, he doesn’t mention it, just pours himself a cup of coffee and asks for the sports page from the newspaper. It’s a morning just like any other, Bucky grumbling to himself under his breath until the coffee kicks in, Steve ignoring him and mindlessly drawing in the margins of the advice columns. He only reads the papers for the politics, anyway. But nothing else is different in the morning, so Steve takes Bucky’s lead and doesn’t bring it up either, content to tuck that late-night moment into the deepest corners of his heart for safekeeping. It was cold and Bucky’s always hated the cold, that’s all.

That night, they crawl into bed on their respective sides, both thinking about what comes next. It isn’t just something that fulfills some twisted fantasy they both know they’ll never get with each other—it _does_ help keep out the worst of the cold, at least to the point where they both can sleep through the night. Steve is worried that Bucky only did it out of pity, a one-off that he regretted in the morning and has been dancing around ever since. Bucky’s convinced that Steve only tolerated it because he couldn’t get Bucky’s damn heavy arms off of him in the night. But, just when Steve is sure that Bucky’s fallen asleep, Bucky shifts on the bed, rolling onto his side and wrapping himself around Steve as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. Steve hopes that Bucky doesn’t hear the slight hitch in his breath and the way he relaxes into him, melting like he was made to fit against Bucky like this.

They continue their cuddling-that-definitely-isn’t-cuddling routine for the next week, both of them avoiding the topic and spending more time at work and school where the rooms are heated and they don’t have to think too hard about how it would feel to be wrapped around each other without all the layers. Bucky feels like he’s going to go insane with want, fumbling lab equipment so frequently that Howard snaps at him in the lab and demands to know what’s going on with him. Steve comes home covered in paint after upending a whole can on himself while on the rafters, though the shame of why he was distracted is far worse than the cost of the can being taken out of his paycheck. Days later, when the landlord cheerily informs them that the heat’s been fixed, Steve hopes Bucky doesn’t see the way his face falls. He’s too worried trying to school his expression into something more acceptable that he misses the way Bucky’s tone turns clipped, how he all but slams the door in their landlord’s face.

When Steve climbs into bed that evening, he knows it’s stupid to hope. They’re back to sleeping in just their pajamas again, the winter coats neatly hung up in the living room and radiator clicking erratically in the corner. There’s no reason for them to sleep pressed up against each other, now that the excuse of needing body heat is gone, but Steve still wishes Bucky would pull Steve against his chest. He’s gotten embarrassingly used to the feel of Bucky’s arm wrapped around him, almost protectively, the way he could feel Bucky’s chest rise and fall against his back. The irrational side of his brain wishes he would pull Steve against him, both of them fully aware that there was no more logical excuse for why they were doing what they were doing. He knows it’s an impossible pipe dream, but it didn’t make it hurt any less when he heard Bucky’s breath evening out next to him, his body facing the wall instead of Steve. He just curls up further into himself and squeezes his eyes shut against the building pressure of tears threatening to fall, feeling massively ashamed, foolish, and very much alone.

What he doesn’t see is the way Bucky bunches his hands into fists, tucking them underneath his crossed arms to physically restrain himself from reaching out and pulling Steve to him.

 

* * *

 

Bucky closes his eyes as his fingers dance across the piano keys, letting muscle memory take over as he eases into the second movement of Beethoven’s 14th Sonata. It had been ages since he had last played, now that there was no room for anything but his violin in their tiny apartment and Bucky finding it harder and harder to find time to return to the Barnes home for extended visits. But now, with school out for the summer and Howard’s repeated assurance that he didn’t really _have_ to work all the time, he found it easier to take a few days here and there at the Hamptons. He had been at the estate for a week now, lying in the sand to get back his tan after months stuck indoors, his freckles coming back and his hair permanently tousled with salt spray. He had told Steve he was visiting family upstate, a grandmother that didn’t exist but proved useful when his mother wanted him home for more than a few days. He hated to leave Steve, but he couldn’t deny that he missed this part of his life too. Now that he was living in their apartment full time, he had far less of the creature comforts he had grown so accustomed to, and he missed shopping on Fifth Avenue and taking his yacht out in the Bay. He missed his white grand piano from Italy, from playing it for hours on end while the wind blew in from the ocean and lifted the sheer white curtains. He missed nights at the opera and private jets to Maine and lemon merengue whenever he wanted, but mostly he missed being able to share all of those with people that he loved.

He hadn’t been able to do that in six years now.

His finger misses a key, hitting a sharp C and wincing at the resulting discordant sound. He sighs, resting his hands on his lap and glancing towards the open windows, watching the brief flashes of ocean as the curtains float in the afternoon wind. He hears his mother approach before she says anything, the click of her heels against the marble echoing throughout the room.

“James, dear, you’re practicing again.” She presses a kiss to the top of his head, smelling like perfume and fresh laundry. He twists on the bench to face her, smiling and catching her hands to press a kiss against her knuckles.

“Figured I’d get some time in before I went back tonight.” He gives her a little smile, closing the lid on the piano. “Is father home?”

She purses her lips—all the answer Bucky needs. “He’s still in Italy, rubbing elbows and charming curators, I’m sure. You’ll be home for his birthday party, right?”

Bucky nods, running his fingers on the top of the lid. “I’ve been meaning to ask him about how the scholarship has been going. You know, for the people that won the classes.” George Barnes had ended up loving the idea of funding artists during the Depression that he had kept up the scholarship year after year since Steve had originally won, picking now three artists a year to participate in master classes in conjunction with the Met. Bucky had been trying to get his father to offer scholarship money for continued art degrees in the city, particularly now that the New Deal had begun taking artists away from their studios and into making public art. Public art, as George put it, didn’t sell, and you very well couldn’t put it in a museum. Though Bucky thought the WPA was doing great work, he knew the government funds couldn’t last forever and that Steve would need a job after the Depression ended. If he started school now, he could have something far more reliable, even ending up in galleries before he got a degree. His father had promised to think about it before he had left for a month-long trip in Italy, a promise Bucky was sure he had already forgotten about by now between the Italian wine and women.

“I think he had asked Helen to start setting something up before he left.” She ran her hand over his hair, smiling gently. “He’s so proud of you, you know—such a steward of the arts. I’m glad you’re so interested in charity, dear, it does wonders for our reputation. Especially now.” She misses the way Bucky bristles, pulling away from her touch.

“I forgot, I have something to give to Becca.” He says suddenly, standing up and shooting his mother an apologetic glance. “I’ll come find you before I leave?” He doesn’t have anything for Becca, but he needs to get out of here, clear his head a little before he can go back to Steve.

“Of course, James. I’ll be in the parlor.” Bucky doesn’t ask which one, just turns on his heel and heads for his room. He dives headfirst into his bed, the thick pillows muffling his frustrated groan. He knows it isn’t his mother’s fault, that she doesn’t know that Steve is more than just charity—for Christ’s sake, she isn’t even aware that Steve _exists_. Still, he can’t help but feel like he’s just dragged his violin bow the wrong way across a string, his whole body cringing away from the sound. Steve isn’t charity, and Bucky isn’t doing this to be charitable. He’s doing this because Steve is the most stubborn person he’s met, and he knows that the only way he’ll get his best friend into the art classes he deserves is if he gets a hand-delivered invitation from the Met itself. The Depression won’t always be around, but Steve’s skill will be; he isn’t willing to let him waste it by painting WPA murals when he could be honing his connections and skills in the classroom.

If Bucky can’t love Steve to his face, he can at least do his best from afar.

 

* * *

 

“Bucky.” He freezes at his name, halfway through taking his shoes off by the front door.

“Yes?” He asks, trying not to let his anxiety get the better of him at the tone Steve is using with him. “Everything okay?” He finishes getting off his other shoe and walks into the room where Steve is sitting at the table, looking at a folded piece of paper.

“I got a scholarship.” Steve’s voice is full of disbelief as he unfolds the sheet of paper, reading off of it. “The Art Students League of New York is offering scholarships for up to four years of full-time study or six years part-time study for past and current recipients of the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Hidden Artists Program.” He blinks up at Bucky, offering the paper. “That’s me.”

Bucky can’t keep the grin off his face, grabbing the paper out of his hand and scanning it over. He’s lucky his father kept his name off of the proceedings, putting everything through the League instead; Bucky figures he owes somebody above a few prayers tonight for that one. His father’s assistant had gotten it all set up far quicker than he had expected, now opening up the possibility of Steve enrolling for the fall alongside Bucky’s schedule. He pulls Steve out of his chair and all but crushes him in a hug, letting out a breathless laugh against his ear. “You deserve it, pal. All of it.” He pulls back, attributing the flush of pink across Steve’s cheeks to the exciting news. “You’re gonna take it, right?”

“Didja inhale too many chemicals at work?” Steve teases, snapping out of his stupor. “Of course I’m going to take it! I can see if I can knock down my hours a bit, maybe take classes at night…” He trails off, his eyebrows furrowing at Bucky’s expression. “Hey, I know that look. I’m not quittin’ my job, Buck! I said I’d pay the rent and I meant it! Don’t come at me with your fancy job and act like you can take care of everything. I can do this.”

Bucky sighs, already defeated before he’s begun. He wishes Steve didn’t have something to prove, that he knew how much it hurt him every time Steve struggled to make the rent when Bucky could make his financial worries disappear in seconds. He hates the fact that every time they have this argument, he’s only reminded of how much Steve wouldn’t understand why he lied to him all these years, how he can really never tell Steve if he wants him to stay around. And he does, very much; enough that he lets the argument drop, lets Steve win this one even though he knows they’ll have this same conversation four times before the week’s over. It’s infuriating and makes him want to pull his hair out every time he thinks about it, but at least it still means he has Steve in his life, and isn’t that the only thing Bucky has been revolving around for six years now.

 

* * *

 

He’s drunk. Way too drunk. It’s his father’s birthday party, which always signals the beginning of the semester and all of its associated stresses. It means that he’ll see Steve less and his textbooks more, but for some reason he’s here with a bunch of loose acquaintances instead of spending his last days of summer with the best friend he’s absolutely gone dizzy over. As much as Bucky hates the cold, he has developed a new vendetta against summer with its heat and propensity to make people strip off their layers to cool off. He’s seen Steve in various states of undress plenty of times before, but the combination of his realized feelings and the new definition to Steve’s muscles from hours painting huge murals has had the unique effect of driving Bucky up the fucking wall. He’s positive there’s some higher being punishing him when Steve walks throughout the apartment with his shirt untucked and open, blissfully unaware of the physical pain he’s causing Bucky. Steve has also taken to air drying after showers, wrapping a towel around his waist and wandering the apartment as he waits for the warm summer air to dry him off. Bucky has claimed heat exhaustion far too often in the past few months, sitting in freezing cold showers with his hands in his hair, trying desperately not to touch himself at the mere thought of tugging the towel away from Steve’s hips and touching him everywhere.

In short, he’s pretty sure he’s going to go fucking insane.

Even though he’s now one of New York’s most sought-after bachelors, Bucky has had very little experience in the entire realm of relationships, utterly uninterested in girls in general and too far gone with Steve to realize he’s been missing out on the most important part of being in his twenties. There’s enough rumors started by hopeful women that it keeps him largely out of the spotlight, but it doesn’t change the fact that Bucky has spent the past few years acting like a nun. And, if he is being frank, he is tired of it. He is tired of making himself crazy at not being able to press Steve up against every surface of their shitty apartment like he wants to, so he drowns his sexual frustration in glass after glass of expensive scotch. It’s a rare moment where he doesn’t necessarily care what the rest of the crowd thinks of him, his bowtie a little too loose and his hair falling out of the gel he ran through it just hours before, curls plastered to his forehead by sweat from dancing in the summer evening air.

He is, however, aware enough to realize that the Randolf boy has been staring at him the entire night, remembers enough that he was on the list of people Howard drunkenly listed one night, assuring Bucky that there were more fairies in New York’s elite than just the two of them. But he _is_ just drunk enough to think that it would be a good idea to cross the room, lean in to be heard above the din of the orchestra and ask him how he was enjoying the party.

“It’s...lovely.” Bucky smirks against his ear—close enough to see the way his—what was his name again? David?—whole body shivers as he responds. He doesn’t remember much about what Howard had told him, but he does know that David—he’s pretty sure now that it’s David—is all slate blue eyes and too-light blonde hair but it’s enough to pique Bucky’s muddled mind into interest.

“Well,” He starts, making sure that his lips brush against the shell of David’s ear as he speaks. “If you find that anything isn’t to your liking, I’d be more than happy to take you somewhere more satisfactory.” He pulls away, draining the rest of his glass and setting it on a passing tray. He turns back to the orchestra, pretending to pay attention to the violin solo while David processes his mind being blown beside him. There’s a part of Bucky’s brain that’s screaming at him to stop, that this is far too public and far too risky, regardless of what he thinks Howard had said months ago about the guy. He has almost no experience to stand on, could be exposed in front of everyone within seconds, and knows he should take a fucking second to figure out if this is what he wants.

But then David turns back to him, blue eyes wide and blown and it nearly punches the breath out of Bucky. He wants Steve, more than he’s wanted anything in this godforsaken world, but he can’t have him. Not now, not ever. So if what he needs to do is bury his feelings under other men, find someone else that he can fool around with and get over Steve with, then so be it. Maybe none of it makes sense, but he isn’t sure his mind has made sense, sober or not, since that night Howard kissed him. So he shoves it down, doesn’t think about it, focuses only on maintaining his composure in front of hundreds of guests as David inches up to murmur in his ear, “Actually, I do think I could do with something a little different.”

“Upstairs, two flights, take the first hallway on your left. Ten minutes.” He doesn’t think, just gives David the directions to his room and leaves, shaking hands and passing pleasantries as he makes his way to the back stairs. He studiously avoids Howard and Becca, a task far easier now that Howard has a new girl of the week on his arm and Becca has turned her infatuation from Howard to a boy who happens to be the firstborn to a coal magnate. Not even the scotch can calm his nerves, his mind suddenly racing at the thought of someone noticing the two of them slipping away together, regardless of the fact that neither of them are suspected of being anything other than two good, female-loving bachelors. He doesn’t want to think about how stupid he’s being, doesn’t want to think about the way this could destroy his entire life in an instant, the way his father would throw him down from their man-made heaven if he ever found out his son wanted men like this.

So he doesn’t, breathes in through his nose and blocks it all out. And when David rounds the corner to his hallway, he doesn’t hesitate in grabbing his hand and pulling him into his room, locking the door securely behind him. He doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to be reminded in all of the ways that David isn’t Steve because he is here to get _over_ Steve. So he drags David into a rough kiss that’s too much teeth and tongue and he isn’t quite sure what he’s doing, but apparently it’s working because David is making noises beneath him that make all the blood in Bucky’s body go straight to his groin.

But he doesn’t think of Steve when David drops to his knees and drags his slacks down to his ankles. He doesn’t think of Steve when he threads his fingers through blonde hair and when he arches against the wall in pleasure. He doesn’t think of Steve when he looks down and sees blue eyes looking back at him and comes undone at the seams. He doesn’t think of Steve when he fumbles with buttons and zippers, pushing his hand inside of slacks and stroking someone who decidedly _isn’t_ Steve, which is exactly what he wants. But, after Bucky wipes his hand off on a fresh towel and they stand panting against each other, his delusion is shattered.

“My name isn’t Steve. It’s David.” David sounds more exhausted than irritated, already tucking himself back into his pants and readjusting his tuxedo collar. He leaves without further word or fanfare, leaving Bucky leaning against the wall, wishing someone or something would smite him where he stood.

 

* * *

 

Bucky decidedly does _not_ want to be in the Hamptons, particularly in September when the weather isn’t good enough to go sailing or lie out on the beach, but also doesn’t justify being stuck in the house all day. He would have preferred to play polo the whole afternoon with Becca, but his mother had insisted that whatever storm that was moving in that evening was too strong to bring the horses out. He had been at the Hamptons for half a week, helping his parents celebrate their 25th anniversary and trying his best not to think about the school he was missing. It fell on a Wednesday this year, meaning that Bucky had to be home not only for the party the weekend before, but also the day itself for an extravagant dinner that could have fed his building in Brooklyn for a month.

But, he was the good firstborn son and played his part, smiling at the guests and giving the perfect toast for his parents. He both hated and loved these parties now, knowing he could slip away and neck with the surprisingly willing men he had grown up with his whole life, but hating the fact that he still couldn’t get Steve out of his head. He chased after his own pleasure when he was away from Brooklyn to stop his mind from revolving around Steve, but so far he had only managed to gasp Steve’s name against sweat-slick necks and down pillows, leaving more than one of his suitors irritated. It had become less about finding the fun in it, now more a desperate attempt to replace his feelings for Steve with someone else that could at least, for a moment, like him back. Sometimes it worked, able to catch brief moments of simply being content that someone wanted him back, that he wasn’t entirely broken; just as quick as they had come, though, they were dashed by flashes of blue eyes and a thin waist and lips that curved into a smile reserved only for Bucky. He just had to keep trying harder, beat it into his brain that Steve could and would never love him back, not like that. He’d get there eventually, he had to.

It was still hours until he had to be ready for the anniversary dinner, and he found himself in the piano room, running his fingers over the keys and practicing his scales. The windows are closed tight against the incoming storm, the dark clouds gathering to the south sombering his mood even further. He’s set to leave for Brooklyn in the morning before school, but he’s already feeling restless and a little stir-crazy, ready to go back to a routine where he doesn’t have to pretend he likes everyone he meets. He misses Steve, wants to be able to talk about how his art classes are going over at the League, to sit out on the rickety fire escape and make up stories for the people that pass by below. He blames the way he misses the next arpeggio on the fact that he’s tired and not the fact that he has been horribly distracted for days.

He jumps at the first crack of thunder that shakes the glass windows, his hands smashing several piano keys as he flinches. He’s up in an instant, peering through the gauzy curtains to see the storm unfolding. He can _see_ the sea churning in the Bay, the trees in the garden bending wildly in the wind in a way he hasn’t seen before. He backs away from the windows, already feeling the familiar freeze of anxiety creeping up his spine when he feels a tug at his wrist, his sister pulling him towards the door.

“Bucky, come _on_!” She all but yells, tugging on his arm. “The mayor called, we’re in the path of a fucking _hurricane_.” We have to get upstairs.” Bucky knows that he shouldn’t be focusing on the fact that Becca just swore like a sailor in front of him, but nothing else is making sense. His father had told them just yesterday that they were expecting a small storm, the type that sometimes came up through the Caribbean in the fall; some wind and rain, of course, but nothing that would interfere with their plans. Hurricanes didn’t come to New York—that was something for the southern states to deal with. He follows his sister dumbly up the stairs, wondering vaguely why they’re going up instead of down; shouldn’t they be hiding in a cellar? Was that tornadoes? Wasn’t it all just wind?

“ _James_.” His mother breathes, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug when they reach the second-floor hallway. His father is already there, pacing angrily back and forth down the hall while the remaining staff huddles against the wall. “We didn’t know where you had gone.”

“What’s going on?” He finally manages to get out, his brain catching up with the rest of him as the shock wears off.

“The meterologists...they didn’t think it would hit New York–” She starts, her husband cutting her off before she finishes.

“Scientists couldn’t figure the damn thing out, apparently. La Guardia just called, there isn’t time to evacuate. It’s on our heads now.” George Barnes bites out, still pacing. Winnie draws back a bit, resting her arms on Bucky’s shoulders.

“I’m sure it’ll blow over soon. This is just a precaution.” She says softly, squeezing his shoulders. He can hear the thinly veiled attempt to cover her own anxiety in his mother’s voice and it does nothing to make him feel better. His father grunts in response, glowering at the paintings on the wall like they were the ones to ruin his day. He’s about to ask if anyone else is around in the mansion when there’s a sound like an explosion coming from downstairs, causing everyone to hit the floor. He’s covering Becca’s body with his own before he realizes what he’s doing, the sound of her screams ringing in his ears as they all glance up towards the stairs.

“The windows.” Winnifred says shakily, her hands a vice on her husband’s bicep. “It’s just the windows downstairs.”

It comes again, panic lancing through Bucky at the sound of glass shattering and wind whipping furniture around in the rooms around then. They’re far from the windows in the hallway, but Bucky can hear the wood of the house groaning under the assault of wind and rain. One of the cooks stifles a scream as they’re plunged into darkness, the electricity cutting out with a sharp pop. Bucky can feel his breath quicken, his heartbeat racing in his chest as he holds Becca tighter; Howard isn’t here to walk him through breathing exercises to stave off the worst of the panic, though Bucky is infinitely grateful that he’s in Canada right now for an air show, far away from the hell on earth unfolding around him.

_But Steve is in New York._

Panic shoots through him as physical and jarring as a gunshot, his whole body jerking in response. Steve was still in Brooklyn, either at their apartment or somewhere in Manhattan for work or classes—Bucky’s brain was too muddled from fear to keep anything straight—but most importantly, he was _alone_. Bucky at least was surrounded by his family, would be rescued first if something truly dangerous was to go down, people would be _looking_ for him if he went missing. He didn’t know who would look for Steve in the middle of a hurricane, make sure that he wasn’t hurt or trapped–

“ _Jamie!_ ” Becca’s voice cut through his spiral downward, using the nickname only she had been able to call him when they were kids. “Bucky, breathe!” She elbows him until he lets go of the vice grip he has on her, squeezing his wrist until he forces air back into his lungs. It’s a dizzying gasp, his first realization of the stars dancing in the corners of his vision, but he forces himself to take another, and another. Steve has to be okay, because Bucky’s mind cannot comprehend anything else. He has little time to recover before there’s another sickening boom above them, sending shards of plaster raining on their foreheads. He can’t see a thing, can barely hear the haunting howl of the wind through the house over the ringing in his ears and panicked shouts that melt together.

For the first time in his life, he’s sure that he’s going to die. He’s made it 20 years laughing at the idea of premature death, his entire life constructed to make virtually any danger disappear with a wave of a pen. He had thought himself invincible, particularly next to Steve, who so constantly flirted with death that Bucky should be jealous. But he didn’t feel invincible now, shaking like a leaf next to his sister in a house he assumed would stand forever. A house that was now being blown apart by nature that had no regard for who lived in the East Hamptons, for how much money they had or who their parents were. This wasn’t living in Brooklyn until he got tired of the rats and cockroaches and could summer in Italy for a few weeks; this was something even he couldn’t escape.

Bucky isn’t sure how long he stayed like that, protectively curled around Becca and listening to the shingles being ripped off of the roof—it could have been twenty minutes or three days, for all he knows. But eventually, it starts to die down, the wind and rain abating to something more like a rainstorm than Armageddon; his father is the first to stand, taking hesitant steps towards the stairs despite Winnifred’s warnings. Bucky is up on his feet the second he hears his father’s choked intake of breath, almost tripping over a painting that had been shook from the wall in his haste to reach the foot of the grand staircase. His mind takes a few seconds to process what he’s looking at: the main entrance of the grand Barnes estate, almost entirely underwater. Chairs and lamps float by in the dim light that filters through broken windows—Bucky guesses it must be early evening, though it’s nearly impossible to tell—paintings worth thousands half-submerged on the wall. He follows the water outside from where the door has been ripped from its hinges, their courtyard flooded all the way out to the ocean.

He understands now why they were on the second floor.

His mother and Becca join them soon thereafter, his mother pressing her hands to her mouth to stifle a sob. Becca stands there, still as a statue, her eyes fixed on where the beach once was. He’s sure they all would’ve stood there like that, staring at the destruction of the house that had been in his mother’s family for generations, but his father pulls them back to the hallway, already giving orders to the gathered staff. They search the rest of the house in a daze, finding the east side of the house almost entirely collapsed in due to the old oak out front falling on the house. Bucky realizes with a pang of grief that his piano is underneath there somewhere, likely now smashed to bits and floating in brackish water. He finds his room blessedly intact, though the windows had burst and debris and glass were covering the ground, making it nearly impossible to step. His latest composition, so lovingly laid out in neat stacks on his desk, was all but gone, half the sheets lying shredded and waterlogged on the ground, the other half lost to the wind outside. On the wall, above his bed, hangs the sketch of the skyline from Steve and Sarah’s old apartment, the one Bucky had taken with him nearly six years ago to get some second opinions on his technique. It’s water-stained beyond recognition now, the rain smudging the charcoal into an angry mess of black smudges across the paper. He carefully unpins it from the wall, folds it along the old creases, and slides it into his back pocket.

He leaves the rest of his things, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

 

* * *

 

They end up trapped in the Hamptons for days as the flooding recedes, Bucky standing watch by the phone and dialing the police chief’s number again and again. He never gets through—hasn’t gotten through since the storm—but he can’t stop trying to reach someone, _anyone_ that can check in on Steve when he can’t. There’s virtually no news getting through with the phone lines down, leaving them all to speculate on how the rest of New York fared during the storm. Bucky knows that at least compared to some of their neighbors, they escaped the worst of it—there are already reports of broken bones, concussions, even rumors of deaths coming from the easternmost side of the island. But they still had lost a good quarter of their estate to the storm, a few of their boats (including Bucky’s yacht), and their dock leading out to the Bay.

Still, Bucky can barely pause to mourn the loss, every waking moment consumed by anxiety over Steve’s whereabouts. He becomes neurotic and unable to sleep, having far more episodes where he feels like his chest is too tight to breathe than he’s ever had in his life. He barely eats, far too nauseated to think about putting food in his system, and he had to be pulled by a butler back twice to the estate after trying to go out on his own. He’s always had nervous problems, but now his mother presses bottles of whiskey into his hands for his “hysterical” episodes, a cure he’s sure can’t be healthy, but doesn’t question. He knows he’s worrying himself sick, but there’s little else he can do with the knowledge that Steve could be out there, alone and trapped, or worse, and Bucky can’t get to him. He needs to know if he’s okay, _needs_ in a way he’s never quite understood the word up until now. He promises whoever is listening again and again that he’ll do anything, _anything_ so long as Steve is safe. Anything.

By Saturday morning, the worst of the flooding had receded, allowing rescue and construction crews to come through and start the long process of rebuilding. The seas finally calm enough that Bucky feels confident enough to take one of their intact boats out, leaving a note for his family to find and firing up the motor to head west. The destruction down the coast does nothing to soothe his nerves, Fire Island and Long Island Beach equally as destroyed as Hamptons neighborhood. The seas had receded from Long Island, bringing with pounds upon pounds of wreckage that littered the water like a shipwreck and slowing Bucky down considerably as he navigated his father’s Baby Gar towards the Brooklyn piers. He’s lucky enough that there isn’t anyone watching the piers, the Coast Guard far more concerned with rescues than policing where a 20 year old can park his boat, and Bucky takes off at a near-sprint. Brooklyn is in far less dire a condition than the eastern side of the island, but there’s still evidence of wind damage and a few collapsed trees as he follows the streets to their apartment. He doesn’t think about anything but the burn in his lungs, forcing thoughts of Steve hurt, Steve swept out to sea, Steve _gone_ out of his brain until he reaches their door.

He all but knocks down the door with his pounding, realizing far too late that he has no idea where his key is—probably at the bottom of the Hamptons Bay by now. The door opens the slightest fraction and it’s all Bucky needs, barreling through the door and knocking Steve clean off of his feet as he tackles him into a hug. There’s a shout of surprise and Steve struggles in his arms until he realizes it’s Bucky, his surprise morphing into disbelief, then relief as he hugs him back just as hard.

“You’re okay.” Bucky breathes, burying his face into the side of Steve’s neck and not even caring how it looked. He needed to feel Steve, needed to know that he was okay and _whole_ and still with Bucky. Steve just nods against him, his laughter watery.

“ _You’re_ okay.” Steve says, bunching the back of Bucky’s shirt as he hugs him. “I didn’t know where you were…”

“I was with my parents.” Bucky pulls back so that Steve can breathe, leaving his hands on Steve’s upper arms and looking over him like he can’t believe he’s in front of him. “We...we got hit pretty bad. Everyone’s okay, but I didn’t know where you were, Stevie. I couldn’t get to you, everything was flooded, I–” He doesn’t realize that he’s panicking again until it’s already happening, his breath coming in short gasps as his vision starts to tunnel.

“Hey, it’s okay, here– sit.” Steve offers, leading Bucky over to their ratty couch. “It was just a bad storm over here. A few trees down, the power went out for a day or two, but nothing happened. I figured that you were still with your family, but I had no way of knowing, but– you’re okay.” He stammers, clearly trying to disguise his panic in front of Bucky. “You’re okay, and I’m okay.”

Bucky nods, trying to steady his breathing. Steve is okay. It does not matter right now that if he wasn’t okay, Bucky would surely break the world in half to make it right again, because Steve is okay. So takes deep breaths, like he was taught, and focuses on the way Steve’s fingers tap against his knee.

“Hey, Stevie?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m real glad you’re okay.” It’s a sad excuse for what he wants to say, the declaration of love so close to his lips that he can taste it. He wants to tell Steve that the world would lose all of its color if he ever lost him, that he would tear the city, the state, the whole damn world to find him again. He would follow him into hell if he had to, even though he knows that if there is a heaven, Steve’s gonna be first in line. He wants to tell Steve that he feels like cryin’ every time he looks like him because he’s too damn beautiful, that he shines too bright like the sun on a hot day and that he can’t stand not being able to have that for his own. But he can’t say any of that, so he lets whatever comes after his heart’s been scraped raw from fear and want tumble from his mouth: that he’s glad that Steve’s okay.

Steve, to his credit, turns that smile he saves just for Bucky on him and squeezes Bucky’s knee. “I’m glad you’re okay too, Buck.”

And when thunderstorms roll through for the rest of the season, Steve makes sure to stay close to Bucky, telling him stories from his childhood and asking about the latest pulp Bucky’s read, letting Bucky rest his head against Steve’s shoulder. Neither of them mention it, the way Bucky shakes when the wind rattles the windows or how he jolts out of a dead sleep if thunder cracks in the night. But Steve notices, wishes he could thread his fingers through Bucky’s and hold him close but settling for bringing him cups of sweetened tea and setting the needle on their record player to drown out the rain. He loves him so much it aches deep in his chest, but at least he’s been given this—at least he’s been given Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to annie (@buckycried) for giving me the idea for the hurricane! this is also a real event that happened in september of 1938, though i took a few creative liberties with it. it definitely did hit the east side of long island the worst, including the hamptons!


	8. fall, 1939-1942

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey all! this is a long and intense chapter. buckle up, folks.
> 
> a quick tw for all: there's a quite homophobic/abusive situation that happens later on in this chapter. if you would like to skip it, scroll past at the paragraph that begins with "The butler who takes his weekend bag..." and you can come back when the paragraph begins with "He collapses against the side of his house..." (there will be a page break before and after these sections!)

A year later, Hitler invades Poland.

Bucky first heard about it when Steve comes crashing through the front door, waving the newspaper at him like Bucky’s the one who personally cleared the invasion.

“Did you _see_ this?” Steve demands, shoving the paper closer to Bucky’s face and making him go cross-eyed. Bucky huffs, shoving the paper back and pulling it out of Steve’s hands so he can read it.

“What’re you so mad at _me_ for? I’ve just been sittin’ here.” He grumbles, unfolding the front page to read the bold headline, in all capital letters:  _ **GERMAN ARMY ATTACKS POLAND: CITIES BOMBED, PORT BLOCKADED; DANZIG IS ACCEPTED INTO REICH**_. Bucky sets the paper down with exaggerated ease, anxiety uncoiling in his stomach like a portend; of what, he can’t say.

“Look, I bet it’s nothin’. I’m sure Poland’ll kick Germany out before the week’s done and everything’ll go back to normal. Europe isn’t gonna let the Great War happen again.” Bucky isn’t stupid—he knows enough history and politics to know bad signs when he sees them. But he has faith enough that Europe learned their lesson after the last war, and that the US wouldn’t get involved in yet another war overseas when most of the population was still starving. Steve doesn’t need to know that Bucky is scared by the fact that his father almost never speaks of his time as an infantryman in the Great War, his eyes glazing over whenever it’s brought up in conversation. So he shrugs, lifting himself out of the armchair and knocking his knuckles against Steve’s shoulder. “That crackpot can’t possibly stay in power for long.”

“Bucky, you don’t understand.” Steve’s still heated, following on Bucky’s heels as he opens the fridge to get a glass of milk. “This isn’t self-defense. That whole Gleiwitz nonsense is just a cover. Germany is _bombing_ entire cities! It’s like nobody’s been paying attention to what Hitler’s been saying this whole time—have you read his speeches? Buck, he’s a _tyrant_.”

Bucky levels a stare at Steve, drinking straight out of the jug while maintaining eye contact. The whole conversation’s making him nervous as hell for some reason and he’d rather Steve direct his anger at his bad manners than geopolitical conflict.

“ _Bucky Barnes_!” Steve yells, shoving the refrigerator door against Bucky’s hip and stalking away. “I don’t know how this doesn’t make you crazy! The guy wants to take over Europe and create some master race of Germans and now he’s actually trying to do it! Europe’s not just gonna let him!” Steve’s pacing their small living room now, his hands flying every which way as he talks. Bucky sighs, putting away the milk and shutting the refrigerator before sitting on the couch.

“Steve.” He says softly, stopping Steve in his tracks. “I’m not any happier about it. But there isn’t anything we can do about it. What’re you gonna do, go over and sock Hitler on the jaw yourself?” He pats the spot next to him, leaning back against the couch. “C’mon, I’m sure this’ll be over before it starts. Germany’s in no position to start anything right now, you know that.”

Steve slumps down next to Bucky, reluctant and pouting still. “I would.” He says after a few beats of silence. Bucky hums, lolling his head to look at him.

“You’d what?”

“Sock Hitler.” Steve says, already balling his hands into fists. Bucky wants to laugh and kiss him right on his mouth, always both in awe of his constant fire and terrified for him because of it.

“Well, I hope you tell the papers who taught you how to throw a punch when you do.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky caught on fairly quickly to the signs: red ties, a green suit, the right length topcoat, the flick of eyes that gave away that someone was checking him. Maybe it wasn’t helping him get over Steve, but it was surely helping with keeping his hands to himself, especially when Steve rolled over in the night and bumped against Bucky, unconsciously curling against the warmth of him. It was enough, and that was all that Bucky needed to tide him over until the feelings finally went away. Sooner or later, he figured, his heart would accept that he could never have Steve, and the feelings he had harbored for almost a decade now would fizzle out into nothing more than friendly love. Something uncorrupted, like what Steve deserved. He might even learn how to be happy for him one day when Steve inevitably got married and had a family.

But for now, he had to be content with drowning everything in expensive liquor and expensive men. He went home less now that his mother was ramping up her attempts at matchmaking, but he still found enough time to slip away during long dinners with politicians and at galas no one would miss him at him. At least, initially. He was now stuck at a dinner party that was going on its fifth hour, his father wining and dining New York’s politicians to keep the Barnes in their good graces, particularly now with America’s public finally looking up to the rich and wondering why they continued to prosper. Howard and Bucky had been throwing bored glances across the table to each other all evening, but Bucky was in desperate need of something far more entertaining. He had been restless for weeks, unable to shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen, but couldn’t possibly piece together what. Steve had caught onto the way he walked like an anvil was always hanging over his head and had turned those damned baby blue eyes on him and made Bucky feel like he was drowning.

In short, he needed to get laid.

So, when dinner ended and the more informal part of the night began, Bucky took no time in tracking down the Senator’s son Fredrick, far too flamboyant for his own good and always a bit too obvious with the way he looked at Bucky. It wasn’t his first choice, but Bucky wasn’t quite in the mood for the drawn-out process of figuring out who in the room was a fairy, or at least attracted enough to power to be persuaded to swing for the other team for a night. He knew they couldn’t be gone for long without suspicion, but he knew where the dark enclaves of the house were, the ones that not even the staff frequented. It was a perfect plan, had already pressed Fredrick against the wall and was busy finding the buttons to his trousers when a hiss from behind him made him freeze, detaching himself from his partner’s neck and whirling around.

“Howard?”

“ _Bucky_?” Howard looks like he’s just been slapped in the face, shock and hurt registering across his face. The Senator’s son is swearing up a storm behind Bucky, fixing his tie and collar in a frantic attempt to make himself look decent. Before Howard can say another word, Bucky turns back to Fredrick, holding out a hand.

“He won’t say anything. Go.” He manages to breathe out, keeping his voice low out of necessity and for the fact that he doesn’t trust his voice not to crack from fear. Fredrick is gone before he can blink, stumbling over himself in his haste to get out of the dark hallway. Bucky tries to take a steadying breath that ends up doing no more than alerting him of how much he’s shaking, and turns back to face Howard.

“What the fuck was that?” Howard’s voice is tight and confused and it kills Bucky that he’s looking at him like this.

“Why are you here?” Bucky asks, a little too harshly.

“I was looking for you. You just...disappeared. I thought maybe you felt sick or something.” Howard trails off, almost flinching at Bucky’s tone. “Bucky, what are you _doing_?”

“Nothing you haven’t done.” It comes out sharper than he wants it to, now on the defensive. And why should he be? It was Howard that started this whole mess, kissing him when he knew Bucky had feelings for Steve. It was Howard who had listed off the names of his male conquests and bragged about the way he couldn’t sit straight for days after some of them. It was Howard who had someone new every week and went through men and women paper. But the way Howard’s face only falls further makes Bucky soften, sighing and running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean that. I’m...just having fun.”

“With _Frederick_?” Howard almost sounds insulted, his voice rising to a sharp whisper.

Bucky just shrugs. “Not my first choice.”

Howard steps closer to him, his eyebrows furrowing as his mind works overtime to piece it all together. “You...how long? How long have you been fucking _risking your ass_ like this?”

“A year? I don’t know, Howard, what does it matter? You do the same thing.”

“You were necking in _a fucking hallway_!” Howard whisper-yells, gesturing wildly behind him for emphasis. “You’re lucky it was me that caught you and not someone else. _What are you thinking_?”

“No one’s found me yet. I’m fine.” Bucky crosses his arms over his chest, avoiding Howard’s eyes.

“Bucky, _why_?” Howard’s voice cracks at the end of his question and Bucky realizes that he’s no longer asking why he’s risking his entire reputation just to get some tail.

He’s asking why it wasn’t him.

Bucky’s breath catches in his throat again, swallowing hard. “Howard, it’s not–”

“Isn’t it? You clearly have no problem sleeping with everyone else. I backed off after I kissed you. When was that? Five goddamn years ago? Figured maybe I had read you wrong after all, that your thing with the little guy was a phase. Clearly you two still aren’t together.” Bucky flinches at that, but Howard doesn’t stop. “I thought to myself, ‘Hey, he’s just lovesick—it’s like a fairy version of Prince and the Pauper’. But you were really busy fucking the rest of New York.”

“Howard–”

“You _knew_ that you could trust me. You know that I would rather die than hurt your reputation, let alone go down with you in the process. So why risk your fucking name to sleep with guys that aren’t even attractive?” Another exaggerated wave of the hand backwards in the direction that Fredrick ran off in. “Do you not trust me?” And Bucky hears it, plain as day underneath his voice.

_Why am I not good enough?_

“I trust you.” Is all Bucky can think to say, his heart breaking for his oldest friend.

“Then why,” Howard steps closer to Bucky, his hand already cupping his cheek and mouthing at Bucky’s jaw. “Why won’t you let me?”

Bucky wants to give in. He wants to stop thinking about how he’s hurting everyone closest to him, wants to stop thinking about his inevitable future with a wife and kids and a legacy to fulfill, wants to stop thinking about his inability to get rid of his feelings for his best friend and his inability to love his other best friend back. He wants to stop thinking, and so he does.

He lets Howard kiss him, insistent and edged with desperation and something that feels like five years of waiting. He lets his instincts take over, far more experienced now than in 1934, grabbing the lapels of Howard’s jacket and shoving him up against the wall. Howard stifles a filthy moan, melting against Bucky and grabbing at him like he’s drowning. It’s enough to knock sense back into Bucky, pulling away from Howard, even as his lips chase back after Bucky’s.

“Howard, Howard we can’t.” He breathes, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his forehead against the wall.

“Yes we can. You can.” Howard teeth catch Bucky’s earlobe and it’s nearly enough to make his brain white out again, but he drags himself back.

“I can’t hurt you.” He tries pushing Howard back against the wall and away from him, but all he gets is another whine of approval and lips chasing after his neck.

“You aren’t going to hurt me. Stop _thinking_.”

Bucky steps back, leaving Howard in a heap against the wall. They stare at each other, breathing far heavier than they’d like to admit in the dead silence of the hallway.

“I’m not using you, not like the rest of them. To them, to me, it’s all just a fuck. A night.” He lets his gaze wander over Howard, undone and glassy-eyed. “It isn’t that for you.” He ends softly, hating himself for letting himself get this close.

It’s cruel, he thinks, that it was Howard that fell for Bucky. Cruel that Bucky could have probably loved him back, if not for a Brooklyn boy who wore his heart on his sleeve and his bruises like badges. Cruel that they could have made it work in a world in which Steve didn’t occupy every part of Bucky’s heart, a world where they could have married rich wives and spent furtive nights and long weekends together, secret yet happy. Cruel that it was Bucky that made Howard’s wandering heart stick for so long on one of the few things in this world he couldn’t have. Cruel that the first person he found that was like him was also the one whose heart he had to break over and over again, year after year.

He loves Howard. He always would love the boy who taught him how to breathe through his panic attacks, who made him shriek with delight flying in loops over Long Island Sound, who braved seasickness again and again just so Bucky could show off his new sailing skills. He would always love one of three people still alive that didn’t call him James, the one that never asked him to be anything other than himself, who went along with every harebrained scheme Bucky could think of with only a shrug.

He just didn’t love him like that.

“I don’t care.” Howard whispers and Bucky could hear the lie in his voice from a mile away. “I don’t care what it is to you. This is _safe_ , Bucky. Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Howard. Not like that.” Bucky takes another step back, not entirely trusting his body so close to Howard’s.

“Who says you haven’t already?”

 _One night._ He thinks. _Just one night and that’s it. We’ll both get it out of our systems and it’ll be fine. Just once._

His pause is all Howard needs, seizing the opportunity. “You want it too. Don’t deny it.” His voice is low and hoarse, straightening as he loosens his tie a fraction. “It’s written all over your goddamn face.”

Bucky can only shake his head, his whole heart and mind screaming at him to _stop_ because he can’t hurt Howard, not more than he already has.

But then, that horrible little voice in his brain. _Don’t you owe it to yourselves?_

And maybe they do. Maybe he owes it to Howard to give the chemistry they’ve had their whole life a shot; maybe it’s the push he needs to get over Steve. Maybe they could work out, Howard slotting into this part of his life as easily as he had with the other sides. Maybe he could be what Howard wanted him to be, and what Steve deserved him to be. Or maybe it was the push Howard needed to realize that Bucky was desirable only because he had been unattainable, needing just one night for him to realize that there wasn’t anything that differentiated him from the other men that shared his bed.

“Stop fighting it.” Bucky steps forward, touching his elbow and searching his eyes. “It’s okay.”

Bucky vaguely wonders if that’s what he’s been waiting for this entire time—permission—as he surges forward and presses his lips against Howard’s. There isn’t that spark, the magical electricity that the authors always write about, but there is a fire, something smoldering and steady between them. It’s the easy chemistry of two people that have known each other forever, the way that Howard knows Bucky is left-handed and always tilts his head to the left when he’s about to say something smart. It’s in the way that Bucky knows Howard favors his right knee after a polo injury when he was twelve, and that he has always been self-conscious about his height. It’s the way the way they’ve always moved around each other, easy as breathing after 21 years, translates near-seamlessly into moving against each other, hands roaming and hips tilting against each other in a rhythm they’ve made from knowing others and knowing each other.

Howard kisses like he’s drowning and Bucky’s air, years of yearning now distilled down to a moment neither of them had planned for. Bucky’s nearly overwhelmed by the force of it, the attentiveness he’s never received with anyone else. And when Bucky breaks away to tell him that they need to move, the whine of protest that escapes Howard’s lips just about brings Bucky to his knees.

“Room.” He manages to breathe out, already trying to figure out the best route to his bedroom that would take them both past any of the staff and the party. He hates to admit that Howard’s right—this is much safer, the two of them long known for wandering off during parties together to drink and smoke or to go for a joyride in someone’s car. No one would miss them, no one would think it suspicious that the two of them were absent at the same time from the party. And so he takes Howard’s hand and all but drags him behind him, up a back staircase and through the darkened halls to his room, making sure to double check the lock before turning back to Howard.

They stare at each other, the distance between them feeling more like a chasm now that they’ve had time to let their brains catch up with them. Howard does his best to hide his nerves, but Bucky could point out his tells better than his own mother, and he realizes with a start that Howard looks _vulnerable_. This is the last change Bucky has to bow out, to decide that whatever results from this is more trouble than it’s worth, to possibly hurt Howard even further by rejecting him for a third time. But he still stands there, twisting the gold ring on his hand that was given to him by his father when he turned 18 and holding Bucky’s gaze.

“Last chance, Barnes.” He says softly, his smile small and sad.

“You too, Stark.”

“I’ve made up my mind.”

That’s all Bucky needs, stepping forward and cupping Howard’s face to press their lips together. It’s slow and sweet and makes Bucky realize that he doesn’t just want to give Howard what he wants, he wants this too. He wants to be with someone who cares about him, who’s seen every side of him and still has stayed, who wants to take care of him for more than just pleasure’s end. He won’t think about how it isn’t the right person he’s kissing, just focuses on the fact that someone cares about him and that he cares in return. He wants it to be that simple. He’s going to make it be that simple.

Before he has time to panic about this being far too intimate, of leading Howard on to something he isn’t sure he can follow through with, Howard saves him by biting his lower lip. He covers Bucky’s left hand with his own, pulling it from where it’s cupping Howard’s cheek down to his throat, positioning the hand just so. Bucky pulls back, blinking in confusion and half-expecting to see Howard blushing like a dame. But he stares at Bucky full-on, his pupils blown and eyes dancing with mirth. “C’mon, Barnes, you’ve never choked a fella?”

And though the idea has never even crossed his mind, he does have a great desire to wipe the smirk off of Howard’s face. He squeezes, tentatively at first, melting away whatever cockiness Howard still had into a filthy moan that sent Bucky’s other hand flying up to cover Howard’s mouth. They stare at each other, Bucky wide-eyed and Howard arrogantly pleased, as they wait to see if anyone heard. No one had, of course, everyone far too busy downstairs with the party to stand outside of Bucky’s door and listen in. Bucky opens his mouth to whisper a warning to Howard when something wet touches his palm; he draws his hand back as though he’s been burned, staring at Howard incredulously.

“Did you just _lick_ me?”

“Doll, you haven’t seen anything yet if you think that’s the most I can do with my tongue.”

Bucky squeezes Howard’s throat again, pinning him against the door with a growl.

“I’m not your doll.” He warns, emboldened by the way Howard grinds his hips against Bucky’s thigh.

“Christ, just fuck me.” Howard breathes, his voice already starting to unravel as Bucky presses against him, kissing him roughly. For once, they’re both in agreement.

For once, it isn’t Steve’s name that Bucky moans when he comes, biting a bruise into Howard’s shoulder as he falls apart inside of him.

Afterwards, they lie together in a kind of comfortable silence, panting and sticky with sweat and come. For once, Bucky’s mind is quiet, the post-sex bliss clouding over everything he knows he should be worrying about. He just knew that he didn’t have to worry about swearing anyone to silence, or kicking them out before they started asking questions; he could just lay here, content, for once. He doesn’t realize he’s closed his eyes and is halfway to sleep until he hears Howard shift next to him, groaning as he sits up. The reality of it all starts to sink in then, the conversations he knows they need to have and the implications of all of it starting to loom over him like a cloud. Howard glances down and sees the crease start to form between Bucky’s brows, can just about see the gears turning in his head.

“We don’t have to talk about anything now.” He reassures him, stretching his arms above his head and sighing as his spine cracks. “Party’s probably over.”

“You can stay,” Bucky blurts out, a beat too late. “Your folks probably already left.”

But Howard just shakes his head, already off Bucky’s bed and starting to dress. He feels like he’s on top of the world, but he can feel himself falling already. He doesn’t want to be around Bucky when the crash hits, the realization that it was all perfect and everything he ever wanted and, at the same time, all he’d ever get. He doesn’t need to ask Bucky to know that this won’t work between them, doesn’t want to get his hopes up past what he’s already allowed himself already. He should learn how to be grateful for the little he’s already gotten, but he was born into a long line of greed and want and he can’t help but want _more_. His mind has been warring for years over whether or not it would be worth it, to be someone on the side for him when Steve inevitably broke his heart—he still isn’t sure he has his answer.

So he dresses quickly, covering the bruises Bucky left with Italian wool and cashmere, patting his pocket to make sure he still has his cigarettes and wallet. Bucky watches him all the while, swallowing hard around a lump in his throat that he doesn’t understand. Howard catches him watching and walks over to the edge of the bed, leaning down and pressing a kiss to Bucky’s hairline.

“Thanks, Buck.” He says simply, giving him one last bittersweet smile before unlocking his door and slipping out into the night.

 

* * *

 

Bucky learns to deal in Septembers. In September of 1939, Hitler invaded Poland. Two days later, Britain and France declared war on Germany. Two weeks later, the Soviets invaded Poland as well. And they didn’t stop there.

The next September, President FDR signed the Selective Training and Service Act into law. The United States wasn’t in the war yet, but Bucky’s hopes of staying out drained away the second Steve brought home the paper with flushed cheeks and hard determination in his eyes.

“I’m going to go register in the morning.” Steve says as he hangs up his jacket, finality in his voice like he’s challenging the US Army itself to not take him.

“We aren’t at war yet, Steve.” Bucky says, trying to steady his voice as he reads over the paper Steve tossed at him. “And you have asthma.”

“We’ll see what they say.” Steve responds with a shrug, busying himself with fixing a plate of leftovers.

“It’s just a registration.” Bucky reads lower down the article, his chest tightening with every line. “It’s just in case. The whole thing’ll be over soon, I’m sure.” The lie fell flat, even to his own ears.

“C’mon, Buck, you’ll be okay. You’ve got your job, and you’re still in school.” Steve softens, not missing the way Bucky’s shoulders tense. “There’s plenty of unemployed guys still out there looking for a job, y’know? I’m sure they’re thrilled about this.” He tuts, taking the paper out of Bucky’s hands and setting it on the side table.

“It isn’t me I’m worried about.” Bucky sighs, finally looking up at Steve. “You have a tendency to run into fights first, ask questions later.”

Steve bristles, stabbing his steamed vegetables with a bit too much force. “People are dyin’ over there, Buck. Good people. _Innocent_ people. And we’re just sittin’ over here like ducks.”

“Steve, this isn’t a back alley brawl I can pull you out of if things get too bad. What’s going over there is _war_.” He hates the way his voice sharpens, panic rising in his throat the more he thinks about them actually taking Steve. He knows they wouldn’t take him, with his heart murmurs and poor vision and his bad lungs, but his mind can’t help but whisper _what if_. All it would take was one desperate recruiter or Steve forging his medical records for him to slip past and actually get in. And once he was there, there wasn’t anything Bucky could do to keep him safe, a thought that jarred his brain so violently that it stopped him in his tracks, refusing to go any further.

“I never met my father because of war. I know what _war_ is.” Steve throws his words back at him bitterly, pushing himself out of the armchair and going into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Bucky flinches at the sound of it, quick and final as a gunshot. His head drops in his hands, hating himself more and more for how easily he lets himself get worked up when Steve’s safety is on the line. Steve is his own person, a person that Bucky can’t help but love _because of_ , not in spite of, the fire that burns through him as readily as kerosene. But he also knows that Steve underestimates his own odds, seeing red instead of logic when he gets heated. Bucky may have taught him how to fight, but boxing techniques would do him little good if he charged in front of enemy fire to be the hero. Bucky doesn’t understand why he’s so eager to fight, to feel the kickback of a gun against his shoulder and to know that he has the power to kill. Perhaps it’s because Steve has been fighting his whole life—fighting to be recognized, fighting to be seen, fighting to stay alive in a world so hell-bent on crushing people like him beneath its heel.

__Bucky never had to prove himself, born into the lap of luxury and all but worshipped just because of who his parents are. He hasn’t needed to ever prove his worth to the rest of the world, his last name serving as a badge of worthiness his whole life. The only person he’s ever needed to prove anything to was to Steve, whose approval means more to him than everyone else in this damn city, in this damn world. But he didn’t need to fight to get Steve’s approval, didn’t have to march headlong into a war he had no interest in and wanted no part of just to get his best friend to smile at him._ _

__Bucky never asked Steve to fight to prove himself, but it wasn’t Bucky’s approval Steve was after._ _

__Bucky feels like shit, hurting Steve like this. Making him feel as though he isn’t meant for something bigger, something more than just his murals for him to be recognized and remembered by. He knows that Steve was made for something great, but something great didn’t have to be this. He would do anything to see Steve paint the Metropolitan with his artwork, and he would do anything to never see him paint Europe with his own blood._ _

__He waits for both of them to calm down, digging his heels into his eyes until he sees stars. After half an hour, he knocks softly at the door and waits for the shuffling of feet, the click of a lock. Steve’s face appears in the doorway, red with angry tears that Bucky hates himself for causing. He pulls Steve into a hug before he can say anything, wishing that he could say a million things to Steve that would make him understand how much he needs him, how much he needs him _safe_. He wants to tell Steve that his worst nightmares are of him hurt, or of a world without Steve Rogers entirely. He wants to tell Steve that he would rather dig his way to China with a spoon than ever see him hurt. He wants to tell him that he loves him so much it physically hurts, that his world would stop spinning if Steve wasn’t in it._ _

__But he can’t say any of those things, so he hugs him as tight as he can instead, willing it to say what he can’t._ _

__Steve wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist and relaxes into the embrace, and to Bucky it feels like forgiveness._ _

* * *

 

__They both register for the draft that October, Steve insisting that he go alone before work and Bucky stopping by after his chemistry class. Steve receives a 4-F due to medical issues, surprising no one but perhaps Steve himself, who comes home in a foul mood not even Bucky can lift him out. When Bucky goes, twisting his hat in his hands, they assign him 3-A, a deferral due to his work with Howard, who has since shifted his factory to developing new weapons for the Allies. All, of course, as a precautionary measure. He releases a breath he’s been holding since 1939, finally holding proof that he and Steve are safe, even if the US does join the war. And if they do go to war, he’ll have time to figure out a way to stay at home; work his father’s connections to get something in the US instead of going abroad, or continue to work for Howard. He feels like he can finally breathe, even with Steve moping around the apartment like a rain cloud is his new pet. Bucky hesitatingly allows himself to feel hopeful for once._ _

__In June, France falls to the Germans._ _

__The next September, in 1941, Bucky’s favorite jazz station is interrupted by news that the U.S.S. Greer has been hit by German submarines off the coast of Iceland. After dinner, Steve asks Bucky to practice boxing with him for the first time in years._ _

__On December 7th, 1941, while Steve is in the middle of sketching out the model for his art class, someone interrupts with news that Japan has bombed Pearl Harbor. Steve didn’t wait to hear the death toll before he was out of his seat, running to catch the train to Columbia. He quite literally runs into Bucky in the chaos of people crying and panicking across campus, falling flat on his ass as he bounces off of Bucky. Bucky’s almost too startled to extend a hand to Steve, hauling him up at the last minute and brushing him off._ _

__“Steve?” He asks dumbly, his mind still spinning from the news about Pearl Harbor and Steve being here._ _

__“I knew you had class,” Steve’s words come out in a rush, his wind-chapped cheeks hiding the embarrassed flush. “It was the first place I thought of to go.”_ _

__Bucky would have loved the admission under different circumstances, sometime when he could think straight and could realize that when national danger struck, Steve’s first impulse was to find Bucky. But all he can think of is thousands of people dead in Hawaii and the inevitability of war, so tangible in the air that he could taste it on his tongue like acrid gunpowder._ _

__“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, looking him over like the bombs hit New York. “Let’s go home and turn on the radio, c’mon.” He’s pulling Steve towards the subway before Steve can get a word in, suddenly feeling like the people around him are leaning in closer, threatening to suffocate him with their tears and righteous anger. Steve catches on enough to follow Bucky silently through the crowds and onto the subway back to Brooklyn._ _

__Bucky doesn’t speak again until they’re in the apartment, Steve already running to turn on the radio._ _

__“I’m gonna go give my parents a ring, okay?” He tells Steve, who answers him with a distracted nod as he tries to adjust the volume knob. Bucky tries to ignore the way his hands shake when he leaves the apartment, coat collar turned up against the cold as he makes his way to the nearest hotel. The public phones are a mess of lines of hysterical women and angry men, but Bucky signals the nearest concierge with a stack of tens and a request to use his phone._ _

__“Mom?” He asks, twisting the phone cord in his fingers as his mother’s voice comes through over the receiver._ _

__“James?” Winnie breathes, her voice flooding with relief. “Oh thank God, I was worried sick. Are you okay?”_ _

__“Yeah, ma. I’m okay.” He reassures her, rubbing his temple with his knuckles. “You? Becca? Dad?”_ _

__“We’re okay, darling. Your father...he wants to talk to you.” Bucky can hear her turn away from the receiver, low voices in the background. Before he can say more, his father’s gruff voice fills the line._ _

__“James, we need to talk about what happens next. You’ll be home next weekend.” It wasn’t a question, it was a summons that Bucky couldn’t well ignore._ _

__“I’ll be home.” He assures his father, his anxiety slowly releasing. They had more military and political connections than they could count—they could figure out a way to get him out of active service. He was their firstborn, their only son. He didn’t have to worry. They would get through this. George Barnes hangs up with no further pleasantries and Bucky figures he must have dozens of phone calls to make before the day is out. He rests the phone back in its cradle, taking a deep breath and finding it in himself to look nonchalant for the rest of the hotel staff. He thanks the concierge again, putting his hat and gloves back on before venturing back out into the cold._ _

__Steve’s attention is still plastered to the radio when Bucky walks in, a little wave tossed backwards the only acknowledgement that he’s even heard Bucky come in._ _

__“Over two thousand people dead.” Steve whispers, his voice edging between disbelief and outrage. “They’re cowards. They’re bullies and cowards with bombs. We didn’t _do_ anything. Those people didn’t _do_ anything!” He all but shouts, twisting out of his chair with blazing eyes._ _

__Bucky knows better than to say anything, sitting down on the couch and fighting off the sudden exhaustion that grips him. He’s just so _fucking_ tired, even with the anxiety still thrumming through him._ _

__“Roosevelt won’t stand for this. We’ll be in the war before dawn, I bet you that much.” Steve says, now up on his feet and pacing. “We need to. Not just for this,” he gestures at the radio, the announcer still soberly reciting the morning’s events. “The Allies can’t push back Germany. The Nazis have Paris and they won’t stop there. They’ll get to London next and then _we’re_ next. I’m not going to watch New York go up in flames from the Luftwaffe.” He stops, balling his hands into fists and glaring at the windows._ _

__“Steve.” Bucky says, his voice far more gravelly than it was half an hour earlier on the phone. “Steve can we just…” He searches around for what he wants to say and comes up short. “Can we just sit here? Please?”_ _

__Steve looks at him like he’s gone mad, cocking his head to the side as he always does when he’s confused._ _

__“The whole fuckin’ world’s going up in flames. I just need...it to be quiet for a bit.” Bucky admits, pressing his hands against his eyes to stop the burning behind them. He is not going to cry, not in front of Steve, who is 95 pounds soaking wet and still would go ship out tomorrow without a second thought. But he will ask this much of him._ _

__Steve must understand, must see the way Bucky’s coiled like a string about to break, because he turns off the radio without another word and sits down next to Bucky. Bucky leans forward to put his head in his hands and takes a deep shuddering breath, trying his best to steady himself. He will not tell Steve that he is terrified of enlistment, that he wants nothing to do with this war, that he wants to keep his mundane, mediocre life with Steve for as long as he can. He doesn’t want bullets and bombs, he wants Rockaway Beach and Steve sketching in afternoon light. He knows his money can get him out of just about anything, but he’s terrified deep down that this time, it won’t._ _

__Steve just rests a hand on Bucky’s back, rubbing circles in it like Sarah used to when he was sick. He starts to hum, disjointed at first, but Bucky quickly realizes that it’s his latest composition, the one he’s been working on for months when he had free time. Steve was listening. Steve was paying attention._ _

__He tries not to feel too ashamed as a few hot tears escape and fall into his hands._ _

__\---_ _

__The next day, just after 9:30 in the morning, President Roosevelt declares war against Japan._ _

__Four days later, on a Thursday, Germany declares war on the United States._ _

__On Friday, Bucky comes into work only to see movers packing up most of Stark Laboratories._ _

__“Howard?” Bucky rushes into his office, almost buckling against the door at the apologetic look in Howard’s eyes._ _

__“Buck, sit down, yeah?” He motions to the chair across from his now-empty desk, a box of his things sitting on the floor nearby. Bucky sits down hard in the chair, his mind running through a million possibilities. Did Howard go bankrupt? Was that even possible? Or maybe the government has seized control of the factory now that it was wartime, or maybe Howard had just pulled the plug for no goddamn reason._ _

__“–I couldn’t get ahold of you, you bein’ in Brooklyn and all.” Bucky realizes he hasn’t been listening, catching only the end tail of Howard’s speech. He’s rubbing the back of his neck like he does when he’s stressed, avoiding Bucky’s eyes in a way that makes fear crawl down his spine._ _

__“The government wants me for another project.” He starts, leaning against the desk with his hands in his pockets. “Just me. Full time.”_ _

__“What?” Bucky responds before the words can hit his brain, before he can understand the full implications of what Howard is trying to tell him._ _

__“They’re making me let everyone go. At least until the project’s over.” He says softly, chewing on his bottom lip. “Buck, I’m so sorry.”_ _

__Bucky feels like he’s just been turned upside-down and shaken, the room spinning and the floor feeling like it’s just dropped out from underneath him. He tries to swallow, finds he can’t, tries again._ _

__“They won’t let me keep anyone on that could be classified as a 1-A if they weren’t working for me.” Howard carries on explaining as though he hasn’t rang the death knell to Bucky’s hope of avoiding the draft. “You know I’d keep you if I could, you _know_.”_ _

__Bucky wonders, distantly, if Howard would have let him go like this if they were together. If Bucky had told Howard that he wanted him for more than just a night, if they ever had that conversation those years ago. He hates himself the minute he thinks it, disgusted for even imagining using Howard’s feelings to stay out of the war. He did everything he could—he must have. Even if they weren’t together, they were still friends. Howard had still stuck by him through it all._ _

__“I can keep you technically on through the end of the month, and then you’ll have to report your job change to the draft board.” Howard recites it like he’s had to say it to hundreds of people already, which Bucky assumes he probably has._ _

__“What are you working on for them?” Bucky asks, because it’s the only thing he can think of to say that won’t end up in him throwing up on Howard’s carpet._ _

__Howard just smiles again, no humor in the thing. “Top secret stuff.”_ _

__Bucky blows out a long breath and stares at the corner of Howard’s desk, the little scratch there that he suddenly desperately wants to know where it came from. Howard doesn’t have to remind him to breathe, to hold his hands and squeeze when he should inhale and exhale, because this time the shock of it all overrides any anxiety._ _

__He still could find a way to stay out of the lottery. His father said they would figure out things when he went home after work. He guesses he’ll be home later than his parents expected, now. He blinks and realizes that Howard is crouched in front of him, cupping his cheek._ _

__“Bucky, you’re gonna be okay. People like us, we’re the ones that make it through shit like this.” He gives Bucky another small, sad smile. “I’ll still be in New York, for the most part. We’ll be okay. _You’ll_ be okay.”_ _

__Bucky wants to believe him, wants everything Howard says to be true, so he just closes his eyes and nods against his hand._ _

__“Besides,” he says, patting Bucky’s cheek and standing back up. “I think the thing I’m working on is gonna end the war sooner than you can say schadenfreude.”_ _

__\---_ _

__The butler who takes his weekend bag when he walks through the door informs him that his father is in his study. He reassures himself with every step up the grand staircase that they’ll figure this out. Steve was safe with his 4-F, Howard was safe working directly with the government here—it was only natural that Bucky stay here with them. They would figure it out._ _

__He knocks on the heavy oak door of his father’s studio, listening to him finish up a conversation on the other side before calling for Bucky to come in. He steps into the room, surrounded by heavy tomes he’s pretty sure his father has never read and the pieces of art that were personally gifted to him by people like Picasso. He was never allowed much in this room as a child, but the mystery that it held when he was younger gave way to the tired realization that adults were, on the whole, quite boring. His father motions for him to sit in the chair across from him and Bucky complies, feeling an eerie déjà vu from his morning encounter with Howard._ _

__“You spoke to Stark this morning.” Again, his father prefers to talk in statements rather than questions, but Bucky nods anyway._ _

__“I heard the news from his father. He’s very proud that Howard got tapped to work directly with the government.”_ _

__Bucky just nods again, trying to keep his hands still in his lap. “Well, the papers have been calling him the generation’s brightest mind for years now. I’m sure he’ll be indispensable to them now.” His heart twists, jealousy mixing with something else he can’t quite pin down. Howard, safe. Steve, safe. Bucky…_ _

__“When are you planning on reporting to the draft board?” A question, finally._ _

__“Howard said I was technically on payroll through the end of the month, so when the office opens up after the new year.” He swallows hard, ready for the conversation to take a more positive turn. “I was planning on moving from part-time to full-time at Columbia, so that I could qualify for a 1-D, maybe defer until the war’s over. I could talk to Fredrick, I’m sure his father would be more than willing–”_ _

__“You will be doing no such thing.” His father cuts him off with a hand, his tone suddenly dangerously even. Bucky blinks in confusion, shifting in his seat._ _

__“I don’t understand.” He admits, fear uncoiling in his stomach like ice._ _

__“You will not be speaking to Fredrick, nor any of the other men you’ve been… _gallivanting_ with. There is no more 1-D classification, James. You will be registered as a 1-A, right alongside the rest of your country.”_ _

__Bucky doesn’t feel like he can breathe, managing to choke out only, “Pardon?”_ _

__“Don’t fucking play games with me, boy!” His father slams his fist down on the desk, causing Bucky to jump. His father never got violent, not like this. “I will not have my son be a fucking _fruit_ and a disgrace to a legacy you are too _stupid_ to understand.”_ _

__Twice in one day, Bucky can feel the room tilt, like he’s an hourglass that’s been tipped upside down. He’s positive his heart stops beating, though the traitorous thing begins beating again, keeping him alive and in this damned room. And then it’s beating too fast, working double-time to compensate for the fact that he’s sure the rest of his body is shutting down, his mind spinning like he’s had too much scotch. “I don’t–” He starts, the words catching in his throat before he can say anything more._ _

__“One of the cooks saw you with a _boy_ under _my_ fucking roof.” George is out of his seat now, leaning over the desk with murder in his eyes. “I am not leaving my life’s work in the hands of a _queer_. He spits, hurling a decanter glass to the left of Bucky. It doesn’t come close to hitting him, but he still jumps, flinching again as it shatters against the bookcase. He levels a finger at Bucky, breathing heavily. “You will join the army and get that goddamn soft side your mother always told me was a phase beaten out of you. You need to learn how to be a man and stop flitting around like a fucking fairy and wasting your life away doing _nothing_. You will make yourself useful, you will come home, and you will marry a well-bred woman and live the rest of your life without another goddamn word about this.” He pauses, leaning further over the desk and holding Bucky’s gaze. “Or I swear to you that I will disown you as my son and you will never see your mother, your sister, or any of your precious fucking inheritance again.”_ _

__Bucky knows that he was a fool to ever believe that he could get away with it all. Howard was right—he was reckless and stupid and now he was about to be hurled down from his gilded heaven all because he couldn’t keep his unnatural impulses under control. His ears are still ringing and he dimly registers that his whole body is trembling, waves of new and different fear washing over him again and again. His father knows, which means his mother knows, which means Becca is not far behind. And now he has to choose between a death lottery and complete ostracization from everything he’s known. He almost breaks out into hysterical, nervous laughter at the thought—ironic, that he would spend the last near-decade of his of his life pretending to be poor only to end up with even less than Steve._ _

__“Get the fuck out of my office. I don’t want to see you unless you have your enlistment papers in hand and a damn good apology.” George Barnes turns his back on his firstborn and only son, ending the conversation and sending Bucky stumbling towards the door._ _

__\---_ _

__He collapses against the side of his house, tears falling before he has time to stop them as he tugs at his hair to the point of pain. He wants to scream, wants to disappear, wants to rewind everything he’s ever fucking done but all he can do is huddle against the bare branches of the bushes and sob until his throat is raw. After, when he can’t feel his nose and he’s too dehydrated to cry more, he goes to the garage and asks for his driver to take him to the Brooklyn draft board office._ _

__He’s monotone and hollow as he gives his name and birthday, as he reports his imminent job change for 1942, as he rattles off his lack of notable medical ailments. He feels like his whole body is on autopilot as he strips for the physical examination, catching the dark hollows underneath his eyes in the reflection and failing to even wince. He starts to put back on his clothes before the examiner stops him._ _

__“We have a new screening process for psychiatric evaluation.” He explains, flipping over a fresh sheet to the clipboard._ _

__“I did the psych evaluation before the physical.” He assures him, pulling on his socks. The examiner shakes his head, clearing his throat to get Bucky’s attention._ _

__“There are new questions, Mr.–” He checks the name on the clipboard. “Barnes.”_ _

__Bucky just sits back up, sighing heavily and waving him on._ _

__“What do you like to do for fun?” The examiner asks, his pen poised._ _

__Bucky cocks an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”_ _

__“What do you like to do for fun?” The examiner prompts again, a line of irritation creasing his forehead._ _

__Bucky is too tired to question or argue, so he shrugs. “I hang out with my friends. I go dancing. I play music. I box.” This seems to be an acceptable answer, the examiner nodding like his head is on a hinge._ _

__“How do you feel about girls?”_ _

__Bucky starts, squinting at him. “How do I _feel_ about them?”_ _

__“Yes, Mr. Barnes. Do you often go out with them? Do you have many girls you would consider close friends?”_ _

__“I go dancin’ with them. Wouldn’t say I have a lot of close friends that are dames, though.” He answers, already worried where this conversation is headed._ _

__“Mr. Barnes, have you ever had homosexual relations with a man or have you experienced homosexual tendencies?”_ _

__“Excuse me?” Bucky is convinced that the world must be out to get him, that karma has finally caught up with him for hurting Howard or for liking men or any of the billion other ways he’s fucked up in the past 23 years of his life._ _

__“Your answers are completely confidential, Mr. Barnes. The U.S. Army wants to avoid enlisting any...maladaptive disorders that could prevent soldiers from serving overseas.” And just like that, Bucky finds a way out of all of this. He could tell them the truth, escape with his life intact. He could avoid the draft, avoid the war, even if it cost him his whole family and all of his money. He could make it with Steve, would never have to lie to him again about not having any money; it could be them against the world, like he always said they were._ _

__But more than all of that, he hated the mere thought of never being able to see his mother and Becca again and living with the knowledge that his family despised him. His father wouldn’t be afraid to publicly out him, very well putting his life in danger and all but forcing him to move cities, states, and start over somewhere else. Somewhere that wasn’t Brooklyn, where Steve belonged just as naturally as water belongs in the ocean._ _

__He swallows and shakes his head, doing his best to look repulsed. “No, I have not. To either of those disturbing questions.”_ _

__If there are more questions to be answered, Bucky doesn’t hear them. He only sees the thick black 1-A stamp on his draft card, the number that could be called at any time to take him away from Steve and Brooklyn and Howard and Becca and his mother and safety and _home_._ _

__He stumbles out of the draft board office and leans against the brick side, heaving until he’s emptied the contents of his stomach out onto the sidewalk. When he walks in through the apartment door and heads for the bed without a word, Steve doesn’t ask any questions. He just curls as close to Bucky as he can without touching him, running his knuckles along his spine when he thinks Bucky has fallen asleep._ _

__The next year, the 18th of September, 1942, Bucky receives a notice from the draft board to report for enlistment._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> most of the psychiatrist material comes from coming out under fire by allan berube, an AMAZING book about the experience of gays during world war ii.
> 
> comments are the reason i get so excited about writing this for y'all!!! drop a bit of your reaction below to make my heart go zoom :)


	9. fall, 1942-summer, 1943

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally, the chapter we've been waiting for

_nine months before deployment_  


Steve comes home to find Bucky hunched over their kitchen table, his fingers crinkling the edges of a letter, a ripped envelope lying next to him. He’s confused for all of two seconds before he realizes what it could mean, dropping his sketchbook and his art supplies to the floor with a large clatter. Bucky barely reacts, blinking slow up at Steve like he’s just waking up, confused as to why he’s there. He’s been sending Steve’s heart in knots for the past year, losing his job at the factory first and dropping out of school because he couldn’t make both tuition and rent. Steve offered to take more hours at work to help out, but Bucky waved him away every time with a finality so rare from him that Steve eventually dropped the subject. He had found Bucky’s draft card days later, slipped between the pages of the book Bucky always read before bed; Steve hadn’t been snooping, it was sticking out of the book and practically asking Steve to investigate. His heart had swooped with a strange mixture of dread and jealousy, unable to disentangle his jealousy for Bucky’s changed 1-A status and the mounting fear that meant that Bucky could be taken away from him at any time. He knew that Bucky didn’t want to fight, didn’t want to fight in a war overseas so far from his family and friends. Steve would give anything to be in his place, to switch their lives so that Bucky could stay safe at home while Steve went to fight.

But now, looking at Bucky’s shell-shocked expression that drove the light from his eyes, all Steve wanted to do was hold him.

“Buck-” His name gets caught in Steve’s throat as he steps around forgotten art supplies at the front door to reach Bucky. Icy fear unfurls in his stomach one drop at a time, turning to ice from the inside out at the realization that this war, the one he’s wanted to fight in the minute Hitler invaded Poland, will take Bucky Barnes somewhere where he cannot follow. Steve, with his card stamped 4-F like a brand stuffed into a coffee can on the top of the fridge, will not be able to train and fight alongside Bucky. He will not have his six on the front, will not be there to sketch his profile while they lie in trenches, or curl against him as they sleep to keep him warm in the frigid Italy winters. It had been the two of them against the world for as long as Steve could remember, for as long as his life had counted, and now it would just be them, separated by oceans and continents and left to worlds that scarcely understood them.

His fingers reach for Bucky’s face automatically, only catching himself at the last moment to have them hover awkwardly in front of Bucky’s face like he’s about to grab him. He drops them instead, easing the letter from Bucky’s grip and squinting at it in the dying light of their apartment. There it was, the summons for him to appear at the draft board, first thing on Monday morning. He was already running the math in his head, trying to calculate how much time they had until Bucky would leave. Less than a year, he figured, though Bucky would be training for most of it. The icy fear curled around his heart, squeezing painfully; it had been over a decade since they had spent more than a month apart, and Steve was naive enough to believe that they would always be close.

He knew it was only a matter of time until Bucky settled down with a dame and started a family, even if he didn’t talk much about it. But even if they wouldn’t always live together, wouldn’t be together in the sense that Steve wanted with all of his too-big heart, at least he could grow old with him in a different way. They could stay friends, become neighbors, be in each other’s lives just the same; it hadn’t yet hit Steve that it all could be ripped apart by the right number coming up on the draft. He had been so preoccupied with trying again and again at the enlistment office with different name and addresses to try and enlist that he hadn’t paused to think about what would happen if Bucky went without him. What it would mean for Steve to stay behind like a dame, writing Bucky letters and sending him sweets and cigarettes every week. What it would mean for Steve to worry, day in and day out, if Bucky was okay. The romance of war began to lose its gleam, showing the tarnished brass underneath.

He sets down the letter face-down on the table, sinking into the chair next to Bucky. His best friend is still staring blankly at the table as though the wood grain will show him a way out of this. Steve hates it—the way that his deferment fell to tatters in a matter of days, the way that he could barely reach Bucky beyond vacant, empty eyes after it happened. It was a look he recognized, the way he had looked shortly after his mother had died,: it was grief. There was more to it than not wanting to fight, than losing a job and enrollment at Columbia—something that ate at Bucky’s core that Steve couldn’t fix. Bucky never spoke of it, always changed the topic when Steve brought it up, and he eventually learned how to live with the painful reality that there were now secrets between them. There were now places of Bucky that Steve couldn’t reach, that Bucky didn’t _want_ him to reach, and it made him feel as though there was a chasm opening up between them. He hated it.

But he hated the way Bucky’s shoulders slumped even more, the boy always so proud of his posture bent with grief. He tentatively reaches a hand to Bucky’s shoulder, resting it there when Bucky fails to react. Steve wants to press a kiss to the ball of his shoulder, pepper his spine with kisses until he laughs, to press his fingers into the pressure points of his neck until he relaxes. But all he can do—all he is _allowed_ to do—is to give Bucky’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. Bucky has taken care of him through eleven years of scrapes and sickness and loss, has always been the first one to pick him up off the ground and call it standing back up. Bucky had looked out for him his entire life, and it was his turn to take care of Bucky.

“It isn’t necessarily a combat role.” Steve starts, knowing full well that both of them know it is. The Army is all but scrambling to enlist more men and replacing noncombatant roles with women to release more men for combat duty. Bucky is strong, built like a soldier in the way Steve first envied, then lusted after. They’ll want him for the action, a steady man with steady hands that Steve might never see again after he ships out. His brain stops him before he can follow that thread further, refusing to think about Bucky not coming home. He would come home, there was no question about it. “I bet the war’ll be over before you even get over there.”

Bucky just sighs heavily, the only sign Bucky’s given him that he knows Steve is next to him. “Can you get the scotch?” He asks, his voice rough and strained. Steve is up before he can say another word, pouring Bucky a finger of scotch and setting the glass in front of him. Bucky throws it back, wincing slightly—he can’t buy good alcohol for the apartment without raising eyebrows with Steve, and he suffers greatly for it—and sets it back down too gently for how he’s feeling. “I gotta report on Monday.” He says uselessly, knowing Steve has already read the letter.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Steve offers, despite the fact that he has work on Monday; if Bucky needed him, he’d be there. But Bucky knows how much it would kill Steve to be in a room full of people who were eligible to fight, to see Bucky get the orders Steve never would. He doesn’t want to hurt Steve nor does he want their last few moments together for God knows how long to be tinged with jealousy and pain. So he shakes his head, pouring himself another glass with a heavy hand.

“Nah, you got work. No sense in both of us losin’ our jobs.” Bucky smiles without a hint of humor, a sharp thing as he takes another swallow of scotch. Steve squeezes his shoulder again and lets his hand drop, hating himself for not knowing what to do to make this better. He would take Bucky’s spot in an instant if he could; he’d take that burden from his shoulders and carry it as his own not only because he wanted it almost as much as he wanted Bucky, but because he would do anything to smooth the furrow in Bucky’s brow. He wants to press his lips against the lines on his forehead, to whisper just how loved Bucky was, how Steve’s whole world revolves around the man who came into his life right when he needed him. He wants to tell Bucky that he’s so heart-stoppingly gorgeous, even in his pain and grief, that it makes Steve’s heart stop in his chest every time; that Bucky needs to quit talking about Steve being in the Met when Bucky has always been the work of art. He wants to tell Bucky that he’s too afraid of the strength of his own feelings that he’s never been able to articulate just how grateful he is that Bucky is in his life, that he was the one to stay when everyone else passed him by.

“Wanna go sit by the docks?” Steve suggests, because Bucky loves to be by the water. They’ve spent countless hours with their bare feet dangling off of the wooden planks, Bucky pointing out the mechanics of how they assemble the Navy ships that must surely be halfway to Europe by now.

“Steve, it’s nearly October.” The fall had swept in unseasonably early that year, their heat kicking on a week ago due to the chill. The wind that whipped off the water would do nothing but chill Steve straight through the bones and give Bucky one more thing to worry about before he left.

“Right.” Steve laughs softly, sounding hollow and fake to his ears. Bucky stares into his glass like he doesn’t even hear Steve, rubbing his thumb around the rim of the glass.

“Remember when we went to Coney Island for the first time together?” Bucky says out of the blue, still staring at the empty glass. Steve looks up, blinking in confusion. But of course, he remembers. He remembers everything with Bucky.

“Yeah, of course.”

“I’m still fuckin’ scared of heights.” Bucky laughs, the sound catching at the end to mask a sob that’s crawling up his throat.

That’s what does it for Steve, no longer giving a damn about what’s right and acceptable; it’s just the two of them, and Bucky has never denied him before. He leans forward and wraps his arms around Bucky as best he can, pulling him forward until Bucky is slumping against him, shaking with silent shudders that Steve recognizes all too well. He doesn’t whisper platitudes against Bucky’s hair as he strokes it, soothing like his ma used to when he was sad. He doesn’t tell Bucky that everything’s going to be okay, or that he’s going to make a great soldier. He doesn’t make promises he cannot keep about not trying to follow him into hell, nor does he tell Bucky that he will surely break open without the sun he has revolved around since he can remember. He just murmurs, “Oh Buck,” against the side of his head and he holds him and holds him and holds him.

 

* * *

 

Bucky ends up being the first person in line on Monday, his cashmere sweater turned up at the collar in a sea of men wearing yesterday’s overalls. He leaves at the end of the week, shipping out to Fort McCoy in Fucksville, Wisconsin first thing Saturday. Ten weeks training, then another six months of training at another base somewhere in the US. And then, if he’s ever-so-lucky, he’ll ship out to some godforsaken place far from Steve and Howard and Becca and everything he’s ever known. He’s standing on a tightrope where if he falls, his world comes crumbling down around him as he’s made into a pariah by his own father for being an invert. But, if he stays on, he’ll be shipped halfway around the world to lie in muddy trenches to be shot at by Nazis. He’s fucked either way, but at least if he completes his service, he’ll come home a hero rather than an exile. If he survives this war, he will make it out with his family, with Steve, with his status and money. He’ll have to settle down with a wife and start churning out children as soon as he touches back down on American soil, but he’s always been preparing himself for marrying someone he isn’t in love with.

At least Steve will be safe.

And that was always the crux of it all. He might come back in a damned coffin, but at least Steve would be safe at home. If there was any consolation he could give himself, it was that he could help in some small way to keep the fucking Axis powers away from New York. They could take his body and break it over the Maginot Line, but they would not take Steve. Regardless of what happened to Bucky, Steve would be in Brooklyn, warm and far from blitzkriegs and bunkers. Steve would survive, even if Bucky did not. It was perhaps the only consolation he got from it all, in the end.

There isn’t much to pack since it’s all Army issue from here on out, and Bucky finds himself with too much time and not enough to do. He can’t hold his violin correctly, his hands shaking with nerves and his mind pulled in too many directions to focus on the notes. He’s cleaned the apartment thrice while Steve’s at work, consolidating his things to take up as little space as possible. He talks to the landlord, gives him more money than the man’s seen in his life at once to make sure Steve doesn’t lose the apartment and that the heat stays on. He still can’t face his family and it’s far too risky to go looking for Howard; most of his friends from college and his childhood have already shipped off or have comfy jobs directing people from ivory towers in Washington, DC. He is, for the first time in perhaps his entire life, alone except for Steve. He hates the way this is affecting Steve, blue eyes soft when he looks at him—it isn’t pity, but Bucky still aches for Steve to look at him like that outside of him shipping out. He knows Steve must be burning with jealousy, might even think Bucky a coward for not wanting to go. He hates that he makes Steve worry about how he’ll fare once he’s deployed, if he’ll even make it back. Bucky could easily be another person in a long line of people that have been taken from Steve, and then who would he have? Bucky doesn’t want to think about it, so he doesn’t. He blocks it out with spending ridiculous amounts of money on acrylic paints and charcoal, hiding them on the top of the closet shelf and in the bottom of Steve’s drawers for him to find when he’s at Fort McCoy.

He logically knows that he has nearly a year until he deploys for good, but it doesn’t stop the anxiety from washing over him in waves. Whatever work ethic Howard managed to instill in him was still laughable next to military discipline, and Bucky was decidedly not a morning person. Deeper than that, though, he was afraid of what he might turn into, of becoming someone that could kill someone else. He hates the Nazis, hates Mussolini and Hirohito more than he’s hated anyone else, but he’s also far too aware of who fights wars. He’s afraid of the humanity in the men on the other side of his rifle, of seeing the frightened eyes of a kid who didn’t want to go to war any more than Bucky did. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to pull the trigger. He’s afraid of becoming someone that could.

Bucky doesn’t sleep. He can’t, not with the panic and general unease gripping his chest like a vice. But he does face the wall. If he didn’t, he would notice the way Steve watches him when he thinks Bucky’s asleep. He would see the tears that sometimes fall onto the pillow because Steve is so _fucking_ scared of losing Bucky. He won’t see Bucky for more than a few weeks over the next nine months, and then he’s gone. God knows for how long, and only God knows when he’ll come back. If he comes back. He had deluded himself into thinking that he could follow Bucky into war, that the recruiters would find some use for him in the battlefield, or needed too many bodies for it to matter whether or not his feet were flat. He doesn’t know how to shoot a gun, but he’s read enough military strategy to believe he would make a pretty good Captain one day. He had been so caught up in trying to get his 4-F removed that he hadn’t fully considered the possibility of Bucky going somewhere Steve couldn’t follow. Bucky had been deferred and it all seemed so iron-clad, a voice in the back of his head singing him to sleep with sweet promises of the two of them being together forever. Even if he didn’t make it into the Army, at least he would have Bucky.

Now he had neither.

He should be proud, perhaps even a little jealous that Bucky was going to fight. He would make a great soldier with his athleticism and eye for detail, but Steve couldn’t get past the bitter taste in his mouth that came from knowing it all came with the caveat of Bucky being thousands of miles away from him. Bucky was a pacifist afraid of heights and spiders and Steve wanted to scream for the way war was going to hollow out those slate-blue eyes. He would go in his place a thousand times over if it meant he could save Bucky from losing that softness to him that made Steve weak at the knees again and again. He was the water to Steve’s fire and Steve was afraid he would burn away to nothing without him.

So he watched Bucky when Steve thought he was asleep, tracing the lines of his body and cataloguing his mannerisms as though he hadn’t spent the better part of his life memorizing everything about Bucky. He could draw him with his eyes closed, as easy as breathing, but he was still terrified that he would start to forget the way the edges of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, what his laugh sounded like right after he had woken up, the smell of cigarette smoke and cologne against his dress shirts.

Steve was afraid of being alone.

He was self-sufficient, had a job, could defend himself well enough to not die out on the streets. He was his own person, but he didn’t want to learn what life was like without Bucky’s constant presence in it. He didn’t want the silence of an empty apartment, of turning to make a wisecrack to nothing but air, of cold beds in the morning and no one to talk him out of stupid decisions. He hadn’t lived alone since he was born and was too proud to admit that he was afraid of being alone. If Bucky never came back, he would be left alone, forever. This war, the one that Steve so emphatically supported, could take one person left alive that he loved away from him. The thought nearly paralyzed him with fear, but he felt as though he needed to put on a strong face for Bucky. There was no sense in making him feel even worse about having to leave, doubly guilty that he was leaving Steve to fend for himself in a city that didn’t give two shits whether he lived or died. He could cry when Bucky was gone for Basic, sticking to the radio like glue to gauge whether or not the war would end before June rolled around.

So he stayed up at night to watch the rise and fall of Bucky’s shoulders, tried to burn the way he moved into his retinas so every time he closed his eyes he would always see him. He could not lose him. He would not lose him.

 

* * *

 

When Bucky left for Basic, he boarded a train with hundreds of other teenage boys that looked just as anxious as him. The station was a flurry of weepy goodbyes, of women crying into their boyfriends’ arms before they left and mothers squeezing their sons’ cheeks too tightly while they told them to stay safe. Steve wrung his hat in his hands and tried not to feel utterly alone in a sea of men physically well enough to serve and the loves of their lives on their arms. He was seeing Bucky off like some kind of dame, his family declining to come for reasons Bucky wouldn’t talk about; but at least if he was a dame Bucky might give him a kiss goodbye. There were no perfumed letters to exchange, no promises of chastity until they saw each other again, no proclamations of love. It was just the two of them people-watching as they waited for Bucky’s train to board, Bucky chain-smoking Chesterfields and tapping his foot in a nervous tic Steve recognized immediately.

“Bet ya a dollar that she’s pregnant and he doesn’t know.” Steve breaks the silence, calling back an old game they played for hours when they were younger and splayed out in a public park, watching everyone go by.

Bucky almost smiles around his cigarette, following Steve’s eyes to the couple. “Bet ya two dollars it’s not his.”

“Careful, Barnes. People’ll start thinking you got money like that to be throwin’ around.” Steve hums, resisting the urge to pull the cigarette out of Bucky’s lips and replace it with his own. Just one. God, he wasn’t going to see that face for _ten weeks_.

Bucky doesn’t stiffen out of years of practice, just grinds the cigarette underneath his shoe. “Yeah, well maybe I’ve got a rich uncle somewhere and we’ll finally get to move out of that shithole apartment when he kicks the bucket.”

Steve smacks him in the chest, rolling his eyes. “Bet you _three_ dollars that you ain’t some railroad baron’s heir.”

Bucky gives him an easy laugh, because he isn’t. He comes from oil money.

 

* * *

 

When it’s time for Bucky’s train to leave, they don’t embrace like the lovers around them. They don’t even hug the way they usually do when it’s just the two of them at home, lingering too long and burying their faces in each other’s necks. Bucky gives Steve a rough hug, squeezing him too tight and giving Steve an excuse for why he’s breathless when Bucky lets go. They stare at each other, for a moment forgetting that they’re surrounded by hundreds of people; Steve wants to think it’s because Bucky wants Steve to be the last thing he sees of New York. And, for a moment, he thinks he sees something—longing, maybe—but the sharp whistle of the train jolts both of them out of it, breaking whatever spell Steve had made up in his mind. Bucky rubs the back of his neck like he does when he’s nervous and Steve mistakes it for him being anxious about leaving.

“It’ll be okay, Buck.” Steve gives him a reassuring smile, his heart breaking behind it. “Maybe I’ll try and make ma’s apple tart recipe when you come home.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, thankful for the distraction from the burning feeling building behind his eyes. “Yeah, that’ll put me out of service for good.” He pauses, then scrambles to right himself. “Aw, Stevie, I didn’t mean-”

“I think we both know that if my cooking could’ve gotten you out of this, we’d be bickering over what radio station to listen to right now.” Steve stops Bucky’s backtrack, still keeping that sad, soft smile that breaks Bucky’s heart on his face. “You’ll write?”

“‘Till ya get sick of me.” Bucky tries for a grin, the expression falling flat. The whistle blows again and the conductor calls all aboard and suddenly there isn’t enough time, he doesn’t want any of this to be real, he doesn’t want to leave Steve, he can’t leave him for over two months-

Steve’s on his tip-toes before he can spiral any further, hugging him quickly. Bucky feels the drag of Steve’s lips against his neck, brief and clumsy, as he tries to haul himself up to hug Bucky properly, and he swears his brain goes white with want. He knows, in that instant, that he would do anything to get back to him. The Army could take his soul and his body and send him into the jaws of death, but he would come back to Steve. He would find a way, hell or high water, because there was no version of his story that ended in him surrounded by blood and carnage and not ocean-blue eyes and ink-stained fingertips.

Suddenly, he’s being pulled back from Steve by his collar, a fellow serviceman tugging him into the car before the train leaves. He glances back at Steve and is almost relieved to see fear mirrored in his eyes, the reality of not seeing each other for months finally sinking in. Bucky raises his hand in a half wave, desperate to catch one last look of Steve before the train pulls out. The last thing he sees before the train turns and the station blinks out is Steve’s raised hand, his chest stuttering in the tell-tale sign of an asthma attack.

 

* * *

 

Steve crashes into his apartment, slamming the door behind him and all but collapsing against it. He hadn’t even made it a minute without Bucky before he his body tried to kill him, his asthma kicking up from all the cigarette smoke and anxiety and whatever the hell came out of trains. He rummaged around through the cabinets, trying to find the nebulizer that Steve absolutely hated but Bucky insisted they buy for emergencies. Because of _course_ Bucky would be sensible and want Steve to be safe when Steve would have never gone out and gotten one of the horrible things if left to his own devices. He chooses to blame the tears in his eyes on the fact that breathing is difficult, digging out the nebulizer and pressing the tube against his mouth, squeezing the bulb and inhaling. He slumps against the counter, willing air back into his lungs as the medicine takes effect. He draws in a shaky breath, pushing his hand through his bangs and laughing maniacally. He slides the rest of the way to the ground, covers his face, and finally lets himself cry.

 

* * *

 

Bucky quickly finds out just how much he hates following orders. The only upside to having every minute of the day scheduled is that he hasn’t had time to stop and miss Steve. He misses him, of course, just like he’d miss his leg if it was taken from him; but he hasn’t had the opportunity to sit down and let it settle deep in his bones, hasn’t had the distinct pleasure of letting his anxiety overwhelm him until he’s catatonic. He can’t thank the Army for much, like the way his hands have started to callous and how his mattress is so bad he’s wishing for their shitty one from Brooklyn, but at least he can thank them for keeping his head above water. He hates the unquestioning acceptance of orders the military demands, though, and the times he does think of Steve’s he’s just grateful that he isn’t here to run his smart mouth. That thought alone brings him some much-needed comedic relief—Steven Grant Rogers, pointing a bony finger in his drill sergeant's face and telling him to _watch his tone_.

It turns out that his rich boy skills, the ones that nearly got him beat up the first day he was in Wisconsin, translated fairly well into the military. He doesn’t appreciate being up before the sun, nor being screamed at regularly, but he does find that shooting skeet all those years translated quite well into shooting a gun. He hates the kickback, the smell of gunpowder that lingers in the back of his throat for hours after they’re done shooting, but he can’t deny that he isn’t good at it. He finds himself calculating the angle and trajectory before he’s even fully processed what he’s shooting at, his finger squeezing the trigger and hitting home every time. It impresses the drill sergeants. It pisses off the other members of his unit, who mostly grew up poor and can’t stand that pretty boy Barnes is upstaging them. It takes exactly one fight that leaves a boy nearly twice his size groaning on the ground with a broken nose and severely wounded pride to gain the respect of the others. His father had been right about one thing—learning how to box had come in handy down the line.

He gets a regular letters from Steve, updating him on the status of their upstairs neighbors as they scream their way through a messy divorce. He knows that Steve must be bored to tears alone in their apartment, especially now that it was getting colder, and Bucky can’t blame him—he was stir-crazy just thinking about being trapped in that little apartment alone. He wants to write back to Steve more and does manage to send him a few letters, but he’s just so damn _tired_ all the time. Still, he manages to tell Steve of how quickly he’s starting to rise in the ranks, about the grueling hours, and anything else he thinks will actually make it past the censors—no use in sending a letter only for most of it to be blacked out. Becca sends him letters too, mostly petulant ones that make Bucky wonder if she’s more upset that he’s been conscripted or that he didn’t see her right before he left for boot camp. It was easy to sense the tension after last September, the way Bucky’s barely come home for the past year and spent all summer avoiding the Hamptons like the plague. But since the rest of the world hasn’t learned he’s a fruit, he assumes his father has kept that nugget of information from his sister. He knows Becca wouldn’t able to keep something like that to herself, much less to Bucky himself. He supposes he should be grateful to his father. He can’t find it in himself to feel anything for him, though.

Right before he leaves for his furlough in New York, he receives a letter from Steve. The only thing included is a clipped New York Times article with the headline _**NEW WARSAW GHETTO DESCRIBED IN BERLIN**_. It’s a short article that barely spans the length of a postcard, detailing the way Jews had been cordoned off in Berlin. Steve didn’t enclose a letter along with it, just an old flyer with the words, “ _Something worth fighting for._ ” written on the back in Steve’s looping handwriting. Bucky doesn’t know whether to tear the damn thing up or tuck it inside his journal, a reminder that at least he isn’t fighting this whole damn thing in vain.

He ends up folding it neatly into thirds and slipping it in the back of his journal, right next to the other letters that Steve and Becca wrote him.

 _  
six months before deployment_  

  
When he’s given his week-long furlough, he pushes past the reuniting couples at the train station, hailing a cab and paying him double to speed his way to Brooklyn. He doesn’t care that Howard has gone off the grid, or that he still doesn’t feel that he can be at home with his family—he gets to spend a week with Steve after over two months of living off of nothing but letters and late-night dreams. He nearly knocks the damn door trying to get it open, slamming it far too hard behind him for what the old hinges can handle, but he doesn’t care because _Steve_ is here, a flurry of blonde all but bowling him over as he rushes Bucky. Bucky huffs a laugh as Steve wraps his arms around his middle, squeezing as tightly as he can as though Bucky will slip from his fingers if he doesn’t keep him there. They don’t need to say anything, Bucky all but lifting Steve off of his feet as he hugs him back, burying his face into his hair. Steve feels like _home_ , something so familiar that Bucky nearly cries with relief. Here there isn’t a world of people expecting something out of him, demanding him to be someone he isn’t, looking to him for leadership he isn’t sure he can provide.

Here it’s just Steve, who he’s loved without reserve for a decade now and who knows him better than Bucky knows himself sometimes. Here it’s their shitty apartment that’s a million times better than barracks and a bed he doesn’t have to make in the morning and where he could reach out and touch Steve if he wanted to in the night. ~~He won’t, but he wants to. God he wants to.~~

Steve murmurs something against Bucky’s chest and Bucky laughs again, pulling back to hear him. “What?”

“I _said_ you’re an asshole for leavin’ me cooped up in here.” Steve huffs a frustrated sigh but Bucky can hear the fondness in his voice all the same.

“Lemme look at ya.” Bucky frames Steve’s face in his hands, tipping it up and grinning. Steve freezes at the touch, can feel Bucky’s thumb sliding along his cheekbone–

“Yep, same ugly mug.” Bucky pronounces, that stupid grin still plastered across his face. “Y’haven’t changed a bit.”

Steve smacks Bucky’s hands away, rolling his eyes and trying to steady his breathing. _Christ_ he’s let himself go if he’s gone all weak in the knees at Bucky just touching his face. “Not all of us spent two months doin’ pushups.” He doesn’t even feel jealous, only the blood rushing from his head when he realizes that Bucky’s managed to pack on more muscle. Was it possible for his jawline to get even sharper? Steve may be having second thoughts about the war but God _bless_ America for this one thing.

“So you’ve noticed.” Bucky waggles his eyebrows and sets his rucksack down, taking a moment to look around the apartment. “Those are new.” He says belatedly, pointing at the paintings hanging by the window.

Steve wraps his arms around himself and nods, using Bucky’s distraction to take him all in. Good _God_ uniforms should be illegal if that’s how they were going to make him feel. Or perhaps it was just Bucky—it was hard to tell with Steve most days. “Yeah, I figured I needed a bit more color in the space.” Bucky turns back to him, giving him the easy, tilted smile that makes Steve feel like there’s not enough air in the room.

“C’mon, let’s go out. My treat.” Bucky ruffles his hair, already striding to their bedroom to unpack. “I think we both need drinks.”

And although Steve would have much rather stayed in and listened to the timbre of Bucky’s voice as he told him about Basic, he agrees. After two beers, he’s glad he went out—he’s able to watch Bucky look free and happy, trying to charm girls into dancing with him and letting his curls fall onto his forehead. Not that he needed to try—even if New York’s eligible bachelor pool was rapidly shrinking thanks to the draft. Still, the way Bucky finds his eyes every so often in the crowd and smiles keeps Steve from being too jealous about the dames that look at him like he’s a piece of meat.

He doesn’t notice the man sitting next to him until he speaks, making Steve jump and shift his attention from Bucky to the gruff voice beside him.

“Nice evening.”

Steve cocks an eyebrow, taking another sip from his third beer. “I suppose.” His hackles are already raising, trying to figure out if this guy wants to fight and for what reason. Steve hasn’t done anything besides patron the bar, but perhaps the guy has a bone to pick about Steve still being in the country and clearly not in uniform. The guy’s easily in his 40s, though, so Steve doesn’t know what his excuse would be. A Great War veteran, maybe, too eager to call out the next generation for not enlisting immediately.

“Listen, I have a room at St. George’s if you’re willing to make some extra cash.” The man doesn’t meet his eyes, just takes a glass of something amber from the bar and downs it in one gulp. Steve blinks, trying to process what the guy is asking him and–

_Oh._

“I don’t-” He stammers, already waving his hands in front of him. He’s trying his best not to dive headlong into a panic because this man had inferred from Steve’s appearance alone that he was no only homosexual, but also a _prostitute_. He hadn’t been to the Hotel St. George before but he had lived in Brooklyn long enough to know its reputation as a cruising spot for all sorts of sexual deviancy. The man mistakes his pinwheeling, tipping his glass in Bucky’s direction.

“Ah, already got one for the night? ‘s all right, I can outbid him.” Steve is sure that the only thing keeping him from getting into a bar fight is the sheer shock of it all, slowing him down to molasses. He opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again but can’t think of anything to say. Before he can collect his thoughts, he sees Bucky walking over to them, looking as confused as Steve feels.

“There a problem?” Bucky says lightly, tipping his head to the side and sidling up to Steve. The man gives Bucky a one-over in his uniform, cocking an eyebrow.

“I normally don’t step on the toes of serving men, but I’ve come a long way and only have a few nights in town. I’d be more than happy to compensate you for loss.” His eyes flick over to Steve again and that’s what does it, Steve all but lunging out of his seat.

“I am not some _B-girl_.” He’s shouting before he can realize it, Bucky already stepping into action to hold him back from starting a physical fight.

“Steve. Steve, _stop_.” Bucky says, his voice low and dark as he gives Steve’s arm a squeeze. “Let’s go.”

Steve struggles against him in vain but Bucky is already pulling him towards the door as quickly as he can—Steve still gets in enough shouted obscenities to last the guy a few lifetimes. He bristles against the cold as Bucky drags them both outside, already wishing that he had brought a warmer jacket. Bucky’s patting him down, leaning down to look Steve in the eyes with a frantic expression Steve hates to see.

“Are you hurt? Did he touch you? Are you okay?” Bucky asks, his words rushing together as he scans him over in a fruitless attempt to find blood or bruising.

“‘m fine.” Steve looks down, avoiding meeting Bucky’s eyes as he shrugs him off. “Let’s just go home.” He heads off before Bucky can get another word in, knowing that Bucky will follow. They don’t speak the rest of the walk home, nor when Steve lets them into their apartment and takes a scalding, too-long shower. They don’t speak when he crawls into bed beside Bucky, unable to unclench his jaw enough to fall asleep. He’s humiliated, moreso that _Bucky_ was there. He begins second-guessing all of his actions around Bucky, clearly letting his guard down enough for others to pick up on the way he looked at Bucky. He was so stupid for not being more careful, though there wasn’t much he could do about how he looked—even he knew he had the type of body that men paid a lot for out by the docks.

He was mostly terrified that Bucky thought he was a fairy now, or that Bucky would be mad that the man assumed that him and Bucky were...together, in a way. He knew how it looked—the fact that he hadn’t been seen with any girl since Suzie, but it wasn’t that he _didn’t_ like girls. He was just horrible at talking to them and most of them didn’t want a man they could step on. Even now, with most of the healthy, strong men off to war and the women far more willing to settle for someone like Steve, he can’t see past his infatuation with Bucky to even think about seeing someone else. In theory, he wanted to settle down some day and get married with a couple of kids; in reality, however, he couldn’t imagine a life without Bucky being right there, all the time. He didn’t _want_ a future without Bucky in it, even if it meant he would have to be a bachelor forever, watching Bucky grow successful and old with someone else.

But, for all his anxieties, Bucky never brings it up again. Not the next morning, when Steve asks him where he’ll be stationed next and Bucky groans _Fuckin’ Jersey_ into a bowl of grits. Not the day after, when they ride together to the Met and Bucky pays for two tickets for them despite Steve’s loud protest. And he doesn’t say anything when he leaves again to see his family the day before he leaves for Jersey—he only promises to be back in a few months, and that he’ll write. Steve doesn’t know whether he should be relieved that Bucky seemed to have forgotten all bout it, or terrified that he was too repulsed to bring it up again.

_four months before deployment_

Bucky works his ass off to keep New York off his mind and while he knows he’s doing a halfway decent job, he isn’t entirely sure why he keeps rising at a breakneck pace through the ranks. He moves bases more than he expected, though he can’t complain as every promotion feels like a balm to his wounded pride (and the fact that he isn’t no longer trapped in Jersey). Furloughs are fewer and further in-between than he would like, particularly in his half-frantic attempts to repair his relationship with his family before he ships out. Still, it’s nearly impossible to spend much time away from Steve, particularly with the threat of deployment looming over his head every minute. There’s no way of knowing when he’d be able to visit home once he starts, especially now with the hope of finishing the war quickly going up in flames with every bit of news from the front. The best he can hope for now is to stay alive until the damned thing is over and not leave his mother sonless and Steve without anyone else.

He goes straight to Brooklyn for his second furlough, a four day stint from his current base in Massachusetts that’s been running him like a dog. Still, he rallies his energy for Steve, his wide smile breaking Bucky’s heart and injecting him with adrenaline in tandem. He has a few months until he ships out, a fact that looms over their heads regardless of how delicately they both tiptoe around it like broken glass. There’s a voice in the back of Bucky’s brain that has been urging him to tell Steve about his money the second he got his conscription, to lay everything bare just in case he never comes back. He can’t stop the image of Steve finding out at the funeral, his grief morphing into fiery betrayed anger that Bucky isn’t sure even his ghost could take. Even if he does come back, Bucky doesn’t know how long he can keep it up—if his father does indeed force him to marry within a few years of his return, he isn’t sure how he can keep that from Steve. Pretending to be a poor kid living on his own from Dumbo was hard enough; he wouldn’t be able to hide a wife and kids from him too. He knows he’s a coward for finally coming to this conclusion only when he’s about to leave, able to avoid much of the fallout by literally disappearing off of the continent once Steve declares he never wants to see Bucky anymore. At least then he’d have a properly morose attitude about being in the Army, having little to come back to other than the promise of marriage to someone he could never love while the man he’d cut his heart out for was on the other side of Long Island, alone and despising Bucky’s guts.

He needs to tell him. But as always, like it’s always been for nearly eleven years now, he cannot bring himself to hurt Steve. To hurt himself.

So he doesn’t, instead trying to memorize the way Steve’s hair falls in his face when he hasn’t gotten a proper cut in a few months and the way sunlight filters through the dusty window in the living room at noon.

The night before he leaves for Massachusetts again, Steve asks him to dance.

“Pardon?” Bucky is too startled to come up with a snarky response, hoping the flush rising to his cheeks doesn’t show over his collar as he looks up from his book.

“I said, do you want to dance? C’mon, aren’t I gonna be the last eligible bachelor in New York soon? I need to practice.” Steve looks a lot more confident than he feels, crossing his arms over his chest to hide the fact that his hands are shaking. He’s gotten bolder with Bucky gone, the longing and fear of losing him altogether nearly toppling him over with intensity. He’s all too aware that these are his last few times with Bucky for quite a while, all too aware that it could be their last. Anxiety has made him audacious and he wants to be _close_ , to at least have something to cling to when Bucky’s gone and Steve doesn’t know when he’ll hear back from him next—or if he will. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that it’s how things would be if they really were together, if Bucky was like that and if Steve was brave enough to make a move. _If._

Bucky just stares at him, and Steve is briefly afraid that he will deny him and leave Steve in the middle of their apartment feeling stupid and small. But Bucky eventually sets his book facedown on the couch, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “Alright, Stevie. Finally getting out there, I like it.” He moves to the record player, setting the needle on the record he had been listening to earlier and turning to face Steve. “Now, you better remember this time, ‘cause I won’t be there as your wingman.”

Steve tries to smile but it feels like the room plunged several degrees cooler, Bucky chewing on the inside of his cheek and averting his eyes once he realizes what he’s said. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Steve cuts him off.

“I won’t forget.” Steve all btu whispers, reaching again for a smile.

Bucky just nods, grateful. He holds a hand out to Steve, the tilted grin back on his lip. “Promise I won’t step on your toes.”

Steve just rolls his eyes to hide the way his cheeks color, taking Bucky’s hand in his own. Bucky walks him through the basic swing steps slowly, patiently repeating it until Steve thinks he’s maybe got it. Bucky lets him take over the lead, not at all fussy about being the female in the dance as Steve pulls him through the steps faster and faster as he gets the hang of it. He struggles to lift his arm high enough to spin Bucky and nearly topples over, sending Bucky into peals of laughter as he catches him by the waist, dipping him low before pulling him back up into a hug.

“Tada.” He laughs as Steve buries his face into Bucky’s shirtfront, groaning and mortified.

“You’re too damn tall.” Steve protests, weakly whacking Bucky’s chest.

“Those dames are gonna be wearin’ heels, pal. You gotta keep up.”

“They aren’t as tall as _you_!” Steve pulls back, glaring at Bucky without any heat in his eyes.

Bucky just shrugs, keeping Steve in the loose circle of his arms. “Not as dashing either, but here we are.”

“Not by half.” Steve replies without thinking.

“Yeah?” Bucky smiles, cocking an eyebrow. Steve _swears_ on his ma’s grave (God rest her soul) that Bucky’s eyes flick down to his lips.

“I mean–” Steve stutters, visibly backpedaling.

And perhaps it’s because there’s a voice in the back of Bucky’s head that’s been telling him he needs to tell Steve for the past seven or so months, but he suddenly feels like he needs to tell Steve right now. Maybe things will be fine, maybe they’ll work it out and he can finally put Steve up somewhere nice instead of someplace where the heat could break at any moment. That doesn’t explain the way he’s moving towards Steve’s face slowly, like he’s being dragged by a magnet. It also doesn’t explain how Steve’s eyes go wide or the way his lips part just slightly when he notices Bucky moving towards him.

“Steve I-”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, cut off by loud shouts in the alley outside that make them both jump apart. Bucky feels like ice water’s just been poured over his head, shocking him back into reality. What the _fuck_ was he just about to do? Tell Steve that he was rich and had been lying to him their whole friendship? Or that he was so desperately in love with Steve that he sometimes thought up half-baked plans to abandon the army and escape to Canada or Mexico or anywhere with him where it could just be the two of them, safe and together.

Steve is already at the window to see what’s going on, pulling it up on its creaky frame and desperately hoping that the frigid February air would cool his burning face. He feels like he’s going to jump out of his fucking skin, his lungs tight and heart beating erratically in a way that he should definitely be worried about. He doesn’t know what Bucky was going to say and is almost more afraid of hearing it than not knowing, the possibility of him not having quite unrequited feelings too much for him to handle. He swallows hard and tries to find the source of the shouting, two women yelling at each other in Polish over only God knows what. Bucky doesn’t come over to investigate, which Steve counts as a blessing; he’s pretty sure he might just throw himself out the window and give the women something to really shout over if Bucky were to be that close to him right now. He feels almost ill from the adrenaline, hands shaking slightly against the window frame as he leans out to catch more fresh air to slap some sense back into him. He tries to think about something, _anything_ to distract himself from the need that pulses through him like white fire, hot and insistent and long-suffering. He had always privately joked to himself that Bucky Barnes would be the death of him, and now he’s half worried that it might end up being true.

He hears Bucky finally shift behind him and Steve grips the window frame, nodding like he can understand what the hell is going on beneath them. “Just an argument.” He says as casually as he can, as though the women in the alley didn’t just interrupt something that felt monumentally important and intimate. Bucky makes a noise of recognition in the back of his throat, shifting awkwardly from side to side.

“I’m uh, gonna take a shower quick before bed.” He says without preamble, disappearing into the bathroom faster than the speed of sound. Steve doesn’t respond, just stays there with his head sticking out of the window until he hears the water start, closing the window and sinking to the floor, dragging his hands down his face and groaning.

 

* * *

 

They don’t talk about it when Bucky leaves in the morning, exchanging a brief hug and a promise to see each other on Bucky’s next furlough. Bucky’s aim is shit when he first gets back to Massachusetts and Steve zones out for an entire still-life class. Bucky wants to believe that Steve would have taken it well, regardless of what tumbled out of his mouth that night. Steve wants to believe that Bucky was on the precipice of kissing him. He knows 99% of it was in his mind, but that 1% nags at him, gives him false hope he knows he shouldn’t have when Bucky is so close to leaving.

But still, he hopes.

They still write when Bucky’s on base, exchanging letters as though nothing had happened between them. When Bucky comes home for his next two furloughs, neither of them mention it, though Steve starts watching Bucky closer for signs that he feels anything for him. Bucky doesn’t treat him any different than he has for the whole time he’s known him, never shying away from physical affection and teasing him with the playful crooked grin that makes Steve’s heart split open. Still, he doesn’t want to think he imagines the glances, the way Bucky’s fingertips linger for a beat too long, the almost imperceptible hitch in his breath when Steve is around. He drives himself nearly mad at night playing it over again in his mind, trying to talk himself in and out of believing that Bucky wants him at all. Maybe it’s just because he isn’t around dames all that much anymore and Steve is slight and small enough. Maybe it’s just Bucky’s brain being scrambled from stress, confusing friendship with attraction in his scramble to feel better about conscription. Or maybe Steve is the one that’s gone nutty, seeing things that aren’t there in his love-blind state.

_7 days before deployment_

Bucky arrives in New York in early June, newly decked in his Sergeant’s chevrons and with orders to ship out for England in a week. He heads straight to the Hamptons first, planning on spending three days with them and his last four with Steve before he gets deployed. If his father is impressed with the breakneck pace at which his son rose through the ranks, he doesn’t show it, only nodding his acknowledgement and giving him a firm handshake as way of goodbye. His mother cries the whole time, apologizing profusely and fussing over Bucky at every moment. He lets her, hugs her often, and promises that he’ll write as often as he can and come home soon. Saying goodbye to Becca is the hardest, he thinks, as he invites her down to the beach and hands her two envelopes.

“What’s this?” She asks, turning over the wax-sealed papers in her hands.

“Find a way to get Howard’s to him. I don’t care how, just get it to him. I haven’t been able to get in contact with him ever he started that damned secret job.” He scrubs a hand over his face, exhaustion eating at him.

Becca looks like she’s about to ask him why he can’t just get it to himself but she catches the look in Bucky’s eyes and snaps her jaw shut. “And the other one?” She asks after a beat, holding the one that isn’t addressed.

“It’s an address. If something...happens to me,” He stops, running a hand through his hair and keeping his eyes trained on the sunset. “There’s instructions. An address, a name. All the paperwork’s in there.

“Steve.” It isn’t a question, but Bucky nods all the same.

“Don’t open it unless…” He trails off. “You know I never told him. I don’t want you running to him the second I leave and freakin’ him out.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Becca says softly, setting the envelopes in the sand next to her. “I don’t know how you did it, Jamie.”

Bucky knows how: he fell in love so hard he could barely see what was going on around him. But he just shrugs, not willing to get into that conversation right before he leaves. “He’s always just...gotten me, I guess.” It’s a poor excuse for over a decade of the undying loyalty they’ve shown each other, but Bucky doesn’t think their relationship is something that can be summed up in a sentence. Steve’s never been someone you can sum up in a sentence.

Becca falls silent, not entirely content with her brother’s answer but letting it slide. When she speaks again, her voice is smaller than Bucky’s ever heard it. “You’ll come back, right?”

“God, Becks. I hope so.” He says, his voice breaking at the end of his sentence. Becca wraps her arms around him as he buries his face in her curls and cries and cries and cries.

  
_three days before deployment_

Steve can’t sleep. Bucky is fast asleep next to him, finally asleep after showing up at their apartment with dark circles underneath his eyes and a resigned look in his eyes. They had walked around Brooklyn nearly the whole day and it must have worn him out sufficiently, which Steve sees as a blessing—he doesn’t think he’ll have a lot of opportunities to sleep undisturbed in the next coming months.

But Steve can’t sleep. He feels like a live wire, his stomach in knots and feeling as though it could leap from his throat at any moment. He’s startled every time he sees a clock, a constant reminder that time will not wait for either of them. He wants to reach out and pull Bucky to him, to persuade him to stay in Brooklyn, damn the world. There are millions of men to replace Bucky in the Army, but no one to replace Bucky for Steve. He already hates living without him, hates the quiet of the apartment when he’s off training, hates the empty feeling and having no one to talk to and feeling alone. He hates being without Bucky’s laugh and the warmth that spreads through his stomach like honey every time he looks at Steve. He even hates the fact that there isn’t anyone to talk him out of stupid decisions—that’s all on him now.

He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until he sees stars, sighing softly as he rolls out of bed. He’ll just take a short walk to clear his head and be back before Bucky even considers waking up. He puts on his shoes as quietly as he can, heading downstairs once he’s locked the door behind him. There’s no one out this late at night and for that Steve is thankful—the last thing he wants is to chat up a drunkard stumbling back from the bar. He walks slowly to the park by his old apartment, the one him and Bucky had claimed as their own, climbing trees and practicing boxing and lying in the grass until the sun went down. His heart squeezes with the nostalgia of it, missing the days where his mother was still alive and the world wasn’t at war and he believed Bucky would always be by his side.

He finds a bench by the street outside the park to sit on, well-lit enough that he feels comfortable zoning out. He knows he should get back soon before the sun starts coming up now that Bucky’s used to waking up at the crack of dawn, but he still isn’t tired and he so rarely gets to experience the city before he wakes up. He stretches his arms high over his head, dropping them down to the bench with a sigh. His hand lands on thick paper and he looks down, someone’s abandoned New York Post lying beside him. He unfolds it to the front page, pleased with himself that he’s nabbed free reading material, and–

There’s Bucky.

He pitches forward further into the light of the streetlamps, pulling the newspaper closer to his face. It’s a bit grainy, in black and white, but it’s unmistakably Bucky, surrounded by people he’s never seen in his life in what looks like a family portrait. The headline sits bold and simple across the top of the page, shattering Steve’s whole world with six words.

**ELDEST BARNES SON CONSCRIPTED FOR SERVICE  
**

He blinks, rubs his eyes with his free hand in an attempt to wake up. Maybe he’s dreaming all of this and still happily asleep next to Bucky in their bed, or he’s more tired than he thinks and he’s started hallucinating. He opens his eyes again, but the offending paper still says the same damn thing, Bucky’s unsmiling face staring back at him. Steve’s almost bowled over with the realization that this must be his _family_ , the girl next to him in the photo resembling Bucky far too much to be a coincidence. The woman behind them both has the same Cupid’s bow lips and nose as Bucky, the man sporting an almost-identical haircut and carrying the same straight-backed posture that Bucky’s had his whole life.

His brain is a mess of white static, fumbling blind and slow as he struggles to make sense of everything. His hands shake as he moves the newspaper further down to read what’s underneath the photo, every nerve screaming to throw it down and _run_ instead.

_James Buchanan Barnes, the eldest—and only—son of George Barnes, the director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, is set to deploy to Europe by the end of the week with the newest wave of conscription. The heir of a Rockefeller and a self-made millionaire, James Barnes will serve in the 107th Infantry Regiment in Europe as Sergeant. “We’re proud of our son, who seized the opportunity to serve his country when so many shy from service,” said his father and noted Great War veteran when asked for comment. Sergeant Barnes will join thousands of other young men already in service in Europe..._

Steve lets the paper drop to the pavement, positive that he is going to be ill. His head spins, positive that someone must be playing an elaborate joke on him, regardless of how little sense that would make. Bucky— _James—_ he boy who shied away from telling Steve anything about his family life and never let him meet his parents, the one who always had enough money and mysteriously got them into places two poor kids shouldn’t have been able to go—rich. In the back of his mind, things start coming together, questions left unanswered for years finally making sense with this missing piece of the puzzle. The rest of his brain is screaming _wrong wrong wrong_ at him over and over again, his heart shattering in a way he hadn’t felt since his mother took her last breath.

He hears himself hyperventilating before he realizes it, the thin gasps bringing him back into his body before he loses control. He knows he needs to calm down, can’t afford an attack out here without his nebulizer, but the thought of having to go back to the apartment and face everything makes him want to double over and _scream_. Because, through the thousands of doubts and painful memories darting around in his mind, it all comes down to one thing: Bucky lied.

Bucky _lied_.

Steve’s face burns hot with shame and tears, wishing the earth would open up and swallow him whole. Bucky had been playing him for _years_ now, living a pretend life for what? To get the chance to play poor and feel a little less bad about his money? Because Steve was naive enough to not look past a pretty face and someone who wanted to be his friend? Was he that _bored_ of having everything he wanted that he wanted something more entertaining, like messing with some tenement kid from Brooklyn. And Steve had gone with it all, never questioning him too far and so completely enthralled with Bucky that he never questioned anything further.

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.

Steve presses his hands against his eyes to stop the tears, hating how his entire body trembles. He stoops down to pick up the newspaper, folding it so he doesn’t have to see Bucky’s portrait, his eyes dark and utterly unlike what Steve has known him to be. He has no idea what his next steps are going to be, just knows that he needs to get home and take his nebulizer—he doesn’t want to think about how Bucky is sleeping soundly in their bed, blissfully unaware of Steve’s entire world coming down around him.

When he gets back to the apartment, the first hints of dawn are filtering through the window, the night sky lightening fraction by fraction to make way for the sun. Steve pours himself a glass of water and sips with shaking hands, trying in vain to get rid of the way his mouth has gone completely dry since he saw the newspaper. He tosses it on the counter, pacing back and forth in the kitchen to try and burn off the adrenaline thrumming through him like lightning. He keeps pushing everything _down_ , thinking about quite literally anything else to keep himself from hauling Bucky out of bed right now and demanding answers.

_Bucky knowing the Met like the back of his hand and knowing fine arts better than any science-obsessed boy should._

He tries reciting the alphabet backwards in his head.

_The way their rent never went up after he met Bucky. The “free” doctors visits Steve got when he was sick. His mother being admitted for free to the best sanitarium in New York City._

He tries to list every state capital.

_His caginess about home life. The art classes he won from the Met._

He stops dead in his tracks, vertigo almost making him fall flat on his face.

_The art classes from the Met._

Any bit of self-confidence he had built up over the last few years regarding his art shatters, crashing down around him in an almighty clatter that nearly brings him to his knees.

He wasn’t really that good. He was never that good. It was Bucky all along, using his connections to humor Steve. Everything was a farce. _Everything._

His head snaps up at the squeak of the mattress in the bedroom, Bucky finally waking up. He stumbles out of their bedroom, scrubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “Mornin’ Steve.” He yawns, still bleary-eyed as he makes his way to the kitchen.

“James.” The name drops like a bomb between them, Steve’s voice rough and low as he manages to keep it from shaking.

Bucky stops dead in his tracks, his head snapping up. “What did you just say?” He half-whispers, half-hopeful that he had misheard something.

“That’s your name, isn’t it? James Buchanan Barnes.” Steve spits out, tossing the newspaper face-up on the kitchen table between them. “At least you didn’t lie about your orders.”

Bucky visibly recoils at the venom in Steve’s voice, picking up the newspaper as his whole body turns to ice. No. _No no no_. He looks back up at Steve, helpless, and is terrified of the pure _anger_ in Steve’s eyes, radiating off of him in deadly waves.

“Steve–”

“I’ve known you since I was _twelve_.” Steve cuts him off, his voice shaking now. “Why. _Why_.”

Bucky opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again. He feels like he’s going to collapse on the spot, every horrible nightmare he’s ever had about Steve finding out finally coming true. It feels like his breath is stuck in his chest, like he’s breathing through a tube and can’t get enough damn oxygen to keep him upright. He drops the paper, letting it flutter to the table. “I–”

Steve doesn’t even let him start, his fist coming hard down onto the countertop. “Fucking _hell_ Bucky! Was this a joke? Was I a _joke_ to you?”

Bucky flinches again, drawing further into himself as he shakes his head. “No, Steve. Never.”

“Then _why_? Why didn’t you just fucking tell me the first goddamn time we met? Or any of the thousands of other fucking times you had a chance? Do you know how much ma _struggled_ to make ends meet? And you fucking–” Steve runs his hands through his hair, on the edge of hysterical laughter. “You _sat there_ and kept your fucking mouth _shut_. _Why._.”

Bucky’s hackles raise at that, everything he did to keep Steve and Sarah afloat without stepping on their pride and independence rushing to his mind. He clings to it—anger, he can work with that. Anger isn’t overwhelming despair, anger is easier to feel than any of the other thousand emotions rushing through him and threatening to drown him. So he snaps.

“Because I knew you’d fucking react like this!” He all but shouts, waving a hand in Steve’s general direction.

Steve visibly bristles, his hands balling into fists. “You _lied_ to me for _twelve fucking years_ , Bucky! This wouldn’t be happening if you had just fucking _told_ me!”

“Right, ‘cause you would’ve stayed my friend if I had.” Bucky counters, crossing his arms across his chest. “No, Steve. You would’ve fucking left me or second-guessed everything I ever did for you. You think I sat by and did fuck-all? I did everything I fucking could without you or your ma noticing—God rest her soul, but she always knew—‘cause I knew you’ve got more pride than brains.”

Steve presses his hands against his eyes to push back the tears, almost choking on his words. “She didn’t know.”

“She did. And she told me to take care of you because she _knew_ I couldn’t tell you.”

Steve wants to scream until his throat is raw, his hands knotted into his hair as he stares up at the ceiling trying his best to keep from crying. He feels so goddamn _stupid_ for not seeing what everyone else could see. He feels so goddamn stupid for ever thinking Bucky wanted him, sending a fresh wave of anger and humiliating crashing over him. Even if in some alternate universe, Bucky liked men, Steve was a fucking _fool_ to ever think he would be able to be with Bucky. He was a poor kid from Brooklyn that could barely make rent half the time and Bucky was related to fucking _John D. Rockefeller_ and probably had hundreds of suitors with money and land and power and everything Steve didn’t have and never would.

“What did you think?” He all but screams, finally looking back at Bucky and not caring if he saw the tears in his eyes. “That you could go the rest of your life hiding this from me? Or once it stopped being fun or whatever the fuck it was for you, you’d just drop me like yesterday’s paper? What the fuck am I to you, _James_?” He spits Bucky’s given name at him, ripping Bucky out of the spiral he was putting himself in over the tears falling down Steve’s cheeks.

“ _Don’t._ ” His voice is deadly and low, angrier than Steve’s ever heard him before. “You don’t get to call me that. Everyone else in the fucking world knows me as that but not you. You’re the only person in this goddamn curse of a universe that knows me as _Bucky_ first. You’re my best friend, Steve, why is that so fucking hard to understand?” He knows it’s nearly 5:30 in the morning and he’s shouting in their thin-walled apartments, but he doesn’t give two fucks. “I wanted to be your friend and didn’t think you’d even give me the fucking time of day if you knew I had money, so I didn’t mention it. It doesn’t change anything, Steve! I’m still the same goddamn person.”

Steve straightens like he does before he’s about to throw a punch, tipping his chin up despite the slight tremble to it. “You’re a fucking coward that plays with people’s emotions because people like you have never experienced a goddamn consequence in your life.”

Bucky feels like he’s been slapped straight across the face, stepping back several feet unintentionally. Some part of him is screaming at him to end this, to put down his guns and ask for Steve’s forgiveness and to fucking _fix this_ before he ships out and doesn’t see Steve again for God only knows how long. But he can’t hear that voice over the roar in his ears, wounded pride and incredulity urging him to hit back just as hard.

“And you’re so fucking prideful and stubborn that you would rather let your mother die in her bed instead of accepting help from someone else.”

He regrets the words as soon as they’ve left his mouth, his eyes widening in horror at what he’s done. Steve stiffens and glares at Bucky with pure murder in his eyes, burning straight to Bucky’s core. He doesn’t give Bucky the chance to backtrack, already at the door and pulling it open with far too much force.

“Have fun in Europe, _Sergeant Barnes_.” Steve says with a final glare, slamming the door hard and making the whole room shake with the impact.

Bucky doesn’t follow him, can barely stumble to the bathroom to heave his guts up again and again until there’s nothing in his stomach and bile sears his throat.

_two days before deployment_

Steve doesn’t come back. Bucky stays in the apartment, bargaining with whatever cosmic entity will listen to bring Steve back before he leaves. He feels like his heart’s been smashed to shards and embedded back into his body, making every breath impossibly painful and leaving him listless. He hates himself, desperately and hopelessly wishes for a way to take time apart and reconstruct it back together to before Steve hated him. To before he met Steve, so he could do it all different. To before he started sleeping with random men and got himself into this position in the first place.

He’s going to be stuck in the trenches of Italy or Poland or some other godforsaken country and die knowing that Steve Rogers could never love him back because he hated his guts. Because Bucky fucked up the last good thing—perhaps the only truly good thing—in his life. He starts to believe that maybe he deserves it, to disappear into the backdrop of war as another statistic, penance for sins that he doesn’t really believe in. But if there is a hell, he’s sure he’ll be the first to burn.

He wanders listlessly around the apartment, jumping with hope at every creak and thinking it’s Steve. It never is.

_one day before deployment_

The night before he ships out, he stays as long as he can before heading out to his family’s estate. He’ll at least get to say goodbye one last time to his family, hug his mother one more time before heading out early the next morning. He leaves his key underneath the mat after he locks it, his stuff already cleared out of their apartment and in boxes shipped back to his house. He wants to scream, to cry, to bang his fists on the door until they’re bloody and Steve comes back and calls him stupid.

He takes one look back at their apartment, shoulders his rucksack, and heads for the car waiting for him on the street.

An hour later, Steve returns from his stay at the dorms at the YMCA, too angry to care about the cost. He was still furious, enough to try his hand at beating Bucky over the head, but Steve couldn’t let him leave without seeing him one last time. That stupid part of his heart that was still desperately in love with him, no matter how angry he was, needed to see him one last time. But when he unlocks the door and lets himself in to their apartment, it’s devoid of Bucky and all of his things.

The only indication that someone else was ever there is a sketch of the Manhattan skyline left on the kitchen table, the paper curling at the edges and the charcoal smudged with water damage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new york times headline pulled from an actual headline from november 25, 1943, the first public american reporting on the holocaust. it was stuck in the middle of the paper and given little attention. almost no one saw it.
> 
> B-girl was a term for sex workers in the early 1900s that mostly got their clientele from bars


	10. fall 1943

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are a few content warnings for this chapter, so make sure to read the updated tags! this one got a little graphic.

_Howard,_

_Hey. I hope Becca gets this to you. I didn’t want to risk trying to find you and incriminating you further in my mess. You deserve to stay out of all of this, and as far as I know, no one suspects you in this. My father found out—not about us, of course, but about me. Guess you were right—I was being stupid. He gave me an ultimatum: join the Army and get the fairy boot-camped out of me, or he’d publicly disown me as his son for being homosexual. I’m sure you’ve heard the news: I ship out on the 14th for England. I’m a Sergeant now, which I suppose is something to be proud of, but I just can’t seem to be excited about having to go get blown up in some fucking random country. Whatever you’re working on to end the war, I hope you’re working fast. God knows I don’t belong out there._

_I want to apologize. I know I’ve tried to before, but it’s always gone pretty poorly and you usually end up waving me off before I’ve even started. Can’t wave me off now, can ya? So I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I ever took our friendship for granted, that I ever took you for granted. I’m sorry that we fell in love with different people, though neither of us can control that. I hope you’ve gotten over me, found someone else that can want you back like that. I’m sorry for giving in that night when I should have said no, no matter how badly I wanted it. It wasn’t right because I knew that it wasn’t going to happen. Maybe in some other universe, we would’ve been happy together. But I can’t help how I feel for him any more than you can help how you felt for me. Dammit Howard, I really wish things would’ve gone differently. Maybe I’d still be in New York trying to wheedle the government’s secrets out of you instead of packing a rucksack._

_I don’t blame you for losing my deferment status, though. I need you to know that. I didn’t contact you after I got canned not because I was angry, but because I was trying to protect you. My father was following me too closely and I would rather put myself six feet under than have you incriminated alongside me. You’ve got far more to lose and clearly are a lot smarter than me when it comes to things, so I didn’t want to drag you down with me. My father was going to find a way to force me into service one way or another—staying employed wouldn’t have mattered. You bought me years I wouldn’t have had otherwise, so I have a lot to thank you for. You never really had a reason to continue to be nice to me after that one Fourth of July, and certainly not after that night. But you did, because despite what the rest of the world says about you, you are kind and forgiving and have a huge heart. Don’t kick my ass for saying that. Or maybe do, because that means you’ll have to come find me in this desolate wasteland of the Western front._

_I know I shouldn’t be asking this, but you’re the only person alive that understands the whole story. Watch out for him, please. I won’t be able to live with myself if anything happens to him while I’m gone. I know you’re busy, but...if you ever see his name crop up somewhere it shouldn’t...God, he’s such a loose cannon sometimes. I know I have no right to ask anything more of you, especially where he’s involved. But please, for me, just make sure he doesn’t do anything too stupid while I’m gone. His address is below. If I don’t come back, please tell him. Better from someone that knew me than finding out when the war ends and I don’t come home. I know you must hate him, but...I guess consider it a potential dying man’s last wish._

_I’m sorry. For everything. I wish everything could have been different. For what it’s worth, I hope you win this damned war real soon so we can get back to wrecking havoc on Manhattan again._

_Miss you, pal._

_Bucky_

 

* * *

 

Steve goes through the following months in a haze. The world has turned upside down and refuses to right itself, leaving Steve stumbling around in a daze of half-sleeping, half-eating, half-participating in his own life as he struggles to make sense of everything. He’s glad Bucky cleared out his things from the apartment, because he doesn’t think he could be surrounded by constant reminders of him if he didn’t want to punch a hole in the walls or break down sobbing in the middle of their bedroom. _His_ bedroom, he reminds himself. It ends up not mattering anyway, since practically everything reminds him of Bucky. All of his memories are covered in Bucky’s fingerprints from spending half his life glued to his side, and Steve starts to find that nearly anything can send him into tearful rage.

He can’t bring himself to throw away the paintings and sketches of Bucky he’s done over the years since they’re some of his best work, and he’s all too aware that he’ll need them for a portfolio later on if he’s to get any sort of art job after the WPA is through. He tells himself he needs to go through his art anyway, and he has nothing but time on his hands now that he is done to zero friends.

He ends up sitting on the bedroom floor with canvas and paper fanning out around him, putting his pieces in chronological order and watching the past 14 years of his life go by. He tried to keep as many of his early sketches and pieces after he moved out of his old apartment, shoving anything that had pencil markings on it into a box that had been sitting underneath the bed, untouched, for years now. It’s fun at first, seeing his first attempts at drawing still lifes around his old apartment, or quick sketches of his mother before he really got ahold of anatomy.

It becomes significantly less fun when he gets to when Bucky entered his life, side-profiles and frustrating attempts at getting his hair down starting to dominate most of his sketches. It’s immediately apparent when Bucky became his friend, the paper turning from the backs of flyers and extra pages in pulps to actual bound sketchbooks filled with thick drawing paper and much higher-quality mediums.

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until a tear hits one of the sketches, smudging a rough charcoal of Bucky’s hands holding his violin. He had spent so much of his life learning the planes of Bucky’s face and body, using his form as practice again and again until he got proportions down right. He had, inadvertently, created a reel of their history together through his art—here was when Steve started to get better from pneumonia and would sketch Bucky as he played violin by the window, and the two of them at Rockaway Beach, the wind whipping Bucky’s hair back. There was the final piece he had done for his art classes, the hasty sketches of the sanitarium, the hilarious inked drawing of the scowl on Bucky’s face one of the first nights in their apartment together. It was a snapshot of their life together, distilled into an embarrassingly large amount of drawings specifically focused on Bucky. Steve had always jokingly referred to Bucky as his muse, but it became more and more real the more he realized the true nature of his feelings.

Not that much of that mattered anymore. It had all been a lie. The soft smiles he thought Bucky only reserved for him and the mysterious gifts he thought Bucky worked hard to get him were just more lies he was fed as he foolishly accepted a false narrative. Everything in this pile was a lie. Even the pieces he loved best, the ones he had done at art class, were tainted; those classes were given out of pity from a man who wanted to feel better from being charitable. He wants to throw them away and forget that Bucky ever even existed, but he can’t bear to throw away any of his art. He instead shoves them into one of his portfolios and pushes it under his bed, rubbing at his eyes with his sleeve.

He was fine. He was completely and totally fine.

He ends up falling asleep that night curled up on his bed, crying into the pillow that used to be Bucky’s.

 

* * *

 

It takes him exactly three months to decide that he’ll write to Bucky. He hasn’t heard a thing from him, sending Steve into a panic of swinging madly between “this means he hates me and never wants to talk to me again” and “he has absolutely no reason to be mad at me and is just giving me space”. Or, the third option, which meant that he had been killed or wounded in action and there was no one to tell Steve of his fate.

He preferred to think it was the first two options, for his own sanity.

He ends up wasting more paper than he would ever be comfortable with trying to get the letters exactly right, crumpling over a dozen sheets of paper that turned into angry ranting or were too tear-stained to be legible. He was still angry—furious, actually—that Bucky had lied to him. But three months of living without hearing absolutely nothing from him wore Steve down. He was angry, yes, but he also missed Bucky so _fucking_ much. At least, if Bucky was here, he would be able to punch him in the arm, yell at him, demand answers out of him, at least know that he was safe and available to talk through whatever the hell had happened during the past dozen years of their lives. But the radio silence was something Steve couldn’t deal with, along with the uncertainty that came with having Bucky be in war. Anything could happen, at any moment—a fact that the propaganda posters and radio ads reminded him at every possible turn.

So, even though Steve was righteously angry, he was not so angry with himself that he could live with himself if Bucky died out there without ever hearing once from him.

He finally writes a coherent letter and only second-guesses himself eight times before sending it.

 

* * *

 

_September 23, 1943_

_Bucky,_

_I don’t know how to start this. I’m still so mad at you. So_ fucking _mad that I could scream. You don’t know how many letters I’ve ripped up or burned over the stove trying to write this one. I still don’t know if I should be sending this. It would serve you right. I suppose you have plenty of other people to receive letters from, anyway. Fuck._

_Okay._

_Let’s try again._

_Hi Buck. It’s me. I’m still so unbelievably angry at you, but I’m writing this because no matter how many times I tell myself that I never want anything to do with you again, I’m always pulled right back in. Like magnets. Despite everything, I hope you’re doing okay in Europe. I don’t know exactly where you are, though I’m sure I’m not allowed to be privy to that information as a civilian. I hope you’re somewhere less horrible than Brooklyn in the winter, and are at least away from most of the fighting. Naive, perhaps, but I think we both know that I’m a bit too naive for my own good sometimes._

_The apartment is fine. Emptier now, with less things in it and less people. I still feed the stray cats in the alley and Mrs. Haroldson still begins every morning by absolutely butchering Frank Sinatra in the shower. Brooklyn is emptier too, though I suppose the whole country feels the same way. But everyone’s rallying around the war effort as always, and rations on ████████ have gone into effect recently so that ████████████████. I’m sure you knew that already, though._

_Art classes are going fine, too. Work’s slowing down a bit so I’ve picked up some commissions for the magazines now that so many of the artists have been conscripted. It’s not a ton of money, but it keeps the lights on. Though I suppose I don’t have to worry about that anymore, do I? I talked to Charles the other day, cornered him when he was fixing 4A’s door lock right after you left. Poor man doesn’t do well under interrogation, even from a slight thing like me. He cracked almost immediately and told me what you had done, you bastard. We have this apartment because it’s what I thought we BOTH could afford and I wouldn’t have to live on your charity from your well-paying “job”. Did you even have a job? Where did you run off to all those times you claimed to be working? Highbrow galas and socialite mixers? I can only imagine._

_Well now, imagine me the fool because I thought I could afford my own rent, only to find out that your portion’s been paid off for years and I’m living on reduced rent. AND you paid the damn man off so that I wouldn’t lose the place even if I did lose my job and came down on my luck. Do you not believe that I can take care of myself well enough? You thought that just as soon as you’d leave, I’d fall to pieces without you to prop me up from behind the scenes this whole time? Just because I’m poor doesn’t mean that I can’t take care of myself. It just happens to be a little harder for the people who have lived their entire lives on the bottom to climb their way up the ladder due to systemic inequities and lack of opportunity. Not like you would know anything about that._

_I’m trying to work on being less bitter. I don’t believe it’s working at the moment._

_I just don’t understand why you lied. Or maybe I do and I just don’t want to admit it, because the reasons are ridiculous. You have no idea how I could have reacted at 13, because I don’t even know how I would have reacted. Certainly, though, it would have been better than to lie for over a decade. Ma obviously didn’t care too much since she apparently knew this whole time, though I still don’t know if I believe you on that one. It hurts too much, if we’re being honest. I understand it wasn’t her secret to tell and God knows she kept from meddling in other people’s lives, but why wouldn’t she tell me? Why didn’t_ you _tell me?_

_Buck, please. I’m trying so hard to understand. I can’t not talk to you but I also can’t figure out how to move on from this. I don’t have any answers, I barely have an explanation for why you did all of this. Fuck. I need you to come back, okay? I need you to be okay and I need you to come back so we can talk about this. Please._

_Stephanie R._

 

* * *

 

Bucky hates everything about war. He hates the way his squadron follow him into uncertain death without a second thought, putting trust in him that Bucky doesn’t feel like he’s earned whatsoever. He might have been a good soldier during training, but training is nothing like war. He feels like he’s always running a fever, the way he sweats during the day and freezes his ass off at night. He knows there wouldn’t be gourmet service out on the front, but _Jesus_ would it kill them to flavor the rations whatsoever? He misses sugar so much he’s pretty sure he would put a bullet in his foot if someone told him they would give him Venetian chocolate for it. He’s learned to operate on little to no sleep, a walking zombie that works well enough on autopilot to not get himself blown to bits so far.

There’s nothing romantic about war. It infuriates him, sometimes, when he’s stuck on watch in the trenches, the way Steve wanted this more than anything. He didn’t find much nobility in lying in trenches for days or watching his friends get their hands and heads blown off by fucking Nazis. He used to love Italy, went nearly every year with his family to soak in the sun and sip on limoncellos. Now he thinks he would vomit on anyone that suggested they vacation in Italy.

He wants to go home. He wants to stop shutting down parts of his brain when he picks up his rifle and aims at the heads of men that were probably drafted, same as him. He wants a fireplace and cashmere blankets and warm soup that doesn’t taste like wet socks. He wants _Steve_ , a thought he’s had to push into the recesses of his mind when they’re on the front lines or else he’ll be completely distracted by his own pain. Every time he thinks about their last moments together it slices through him like a hot knife, searing him from the inside out. He’s never hated himself more or resigned before, wandering aimlessly from country to country with only the barest hint of what was going on. His body took over well enough, strategizing and carrying his feet for him, being the Sergeant the 107th needed despite the fact that his mind was swimming in grief.  
He doesn’t write to Steve, barely writes to his family. He writes his family when he makes landfall in Europe to let them know he made it safely, though sending any sort of mail is getting harder and harder now that the stretches between his time on the front lines are getting shorter. The last thing he wants to do is pull out a pencil with his frozen fingers and try and scratch out that he’s doing fine, that he’ll be home soon, that they’re sockin’ Hitler right in the kisser. He can’t even complain about the cold or the damn trenches because the censors will take it all out, too spooked of Axis interception. Like they’d want to read his fuckin’ mail.

He gets letters from Becca, mostly. Nothing comes from Steve. He doesn’t expect anything from Steve, but it still hurts like hell. He’s hopeless, grasping at straws to try and find somewhere he could’ve made it work. Despite everything, he’s still almost positive that they would have never been this close if Steve had known from the start. He would have second-guessed everything Bucky ever did for him and would have always thought Bucky was treating him as a charity case. If nothing else, Bucky muses, at least he got a few years of genuine friendship before he fucked it all up. It does nothing to stem the bleeding from his chest that makes him sometimes wish that a fucking German would just take him out already and stop the pain. It’s gotta hurt less, a bullet to the chest.

Steve hates him. He knows this, as unshakable knowledge as how he knows the sky is blue. There’s no way Bucky was ever going to make it out of Steve finding out without him despising every bone in his body. Still, it hurt. It hurt and hurt and hurt until there was nothing Bucky could feel but overwhelming despair that he had to shove down to stay alive. The rare times he was given leave in Italian towns away from the front, he would throw back scotch after scotch, avoiding the rest of his platoon and doing his best to drown his sorrows. He must have looked like he was in constant need of companionship, men and women alike propositioning to spend a night with the poor soldier. He knew the risks of being caught with another man while he was serving, had heard the stories of men getting dishonorable discharges for going off with local men or each other under the cover of darkness. Still, he was lonesome and no longer had anything to come back to. He had spent half his life now revolving around the sun that had rejected him, sending him spinning into a useless orbit that he found no purpose in.

He couldn’t even go with the men that wanted to take him back to their rooms, or the fellow soldiers that looked him up and down like he could give them a good time that night. All he could think of was Steve tossing the newspaper on the table, the way the “ _James_ ” dripped from his tongue like acid. All he could think of was the life he had completely fucked up and the man that no longer wanted anything to do with him. So he closed himself off from friends and potential lovers, turning away and retreating further and further into himself. At least this way, he wouldn’t be able to cause anyone else pain.

 

* * *

 

_September 27, 1943_

_Bucky,_

_I guess I know why your nickname is Bucky now. I had always wondered, but you’ve always been a pro at dodging questions. I know I shouldn’t, but I blame myself for how absolutely stupid I was to believe you for all those years. I went so willingly along with everything you told me. I guess it was because I always wanted to believe you. Ever since we were kids, you’ve always been someone I’ve looked up to and wanted to be, so I guess it was that easy to overlook the inconsistencies. I hadn’t really had a friend before, so I looked past nearly everything you did that raised questions. Guess ma didn’t, but that’s a story for a different time, I suppose._

_You have a sister, then. I’ve tried picking up some more Posts lately, or those gossip magazines that famous people are always in. I guess you’re famous, right? Christ, it’s a miracle nobody bowed to you in the streets with how much money your family has. Your sister is pretty, by the way. She has your nose and I guess your hair runs in the family. Rockfeller. Jesus H. Christ, Buck. Your dad essentially owns the Met._ The Met _. I mean, what am I supposed to do with that? It makes sense now, why I mysteriously won all those scholarships for classes. It was all you, not my talent. Guess that was my own dumb fault for ever thinking the Met actually wanted someone like me. People like me don’t get to be artists. I was dumb for thinking I was ever really that special, huh?_

_To think. You’ve probably met Hopper. Picasso. Christ, do you know Frida Kahlo? I can’t think about it or I get faint and gotta get my nebulizer and I know how much you hate it when I work myself up like that. You could’ve introduced me. I could’ve...well, I don’t know what I could’ve done, but it would’ve been more than I was doing in Brooklyn._

_If I found out you know Frida, I will personally drag you back from Europe._

_Stephanie_

 

* * *

 

On some level, Steve knows he’s incredibly stupid for trying to enlist again. He’s standing in line at the science expo, trying his best to look casual and like he belongs. He’s been trying to enlist since Bucky left, trying his hand at different enlistment centers around New York under different names. He knows it’s illegal, but he doesn’t understand how he could be punished for wanting to serve his country—at least that’s what he tells himself. He’s definitely enlisting because he wants to help the war effort, and not because he has a half-baked plan of following Bucky into the front lines because he can’t stand the thought of him out there, alone. The Army’s been getting progressively more desperate to take people and he figures all sorts of people come through fair tents like this. He might have a shot, which means that he would be one step closer to finding Bucky. It’s a crazy, stupid, half-baked idea, but he isn’t thinking straight, isn’t eating right, isn’t sleeping well enough to think through it all. Most importantly, he no longer has someone to keep his impulsive nature in check—no Sarah to ruffle his hair, no Bucky to drag him away from a fight. He was alone now.

He gives his name and New Haven as his hometown to the intake officer, who writes his name down with indifference and directs him to the last examination room on the left. He pulls the curtain aside, taking off his coat and hanging it on the wall hook. A doctor follows him in, looking at Steve like he already plans on stamping him as a 4F before he listen to his stuttering heart. Before he can even begin the pleasantries, a nurse comes in, whispering in the doctor’s ear. He glances at Steve, cocking an intrigued eyebrow, but nods and holds a hand out to Steve. “Wait here.” He tells him, already pulling back the curtain.

“Just wait here.” He holds his hand out again, as though Steve was a disobedient dog, and shuts the curtain behind him. Steve’s heart picks up, panic settling in his bones. They must have run his name and figured out he really isn’t from Connecticut and now they’re coming to arrest him, or at least give him a very stern talking-to. Or, God forbid, there’s some kind of fine involved—heaven knows Steve can’t afford another expense on his already stretched-thin salary. He’s reaching for his coat when a Military Police officer sweeps in, staring at him with indifference. Steve’s hand jumps back like he’s been burnt, immediately clasping his hands in his lap and trying not to think about how fucked he’s about to be.

“Thank you.” His head snaps up at the German accent, an older man dismissing the MP and closing the curtain behind them. He doesn’t even look up at Steve, just flips through his file.

“So you want to go overseas. Kill some Nazis.”

“Pardon?” Steve stutters at the forwardness of the man, wondering if this is going to involve handcuffs.

“Dr. Abraham Erskine.” The man holds out a hand for Steve to shake, gripping his hand firmly. “I represent the Strategic Scientific Reserve.”

“Steve Rogers.” Steve says warily, wracking his mind for any knowledge about this branch. It wasn’t in any of the papers, and what the hell did a science team want with him? They would’ve been much better off with Bucky, a thought that pops into his mind unprompted and almost leaves him doubled over with grief. Dr. Erskine doesn’t notice, his attention back to the file. “Where are you from, Mr. Rogers? New Haven? Paramus? Five exams in five different cities.” He almost looks amused, _tsk_ ing as he closes the file with a snap.

“That might not be the right file–” Steve cuts in, swallowing around a lump in his throat. Why were they dragging this out?

“It’s not the exams I’m interested in. It’s the five tries. But you didn’t answer my question. Do you want to kill Nazis?” He asks, setting the file down on top of a pile of medical equipment.

“I don’t want to kill anyone.” Steve answers truthfully, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I don’t like bullies—I don’t care where they’re from.”

Dr. Erskine sucks on his teeth as he regards Steve. He finally nods, motioning Steve out of the room. “I can offer you a chance. Only a chance.”

Steve’s heart leaps as he grabs his coat and follows the doctor outside, not fully believing what was going on. He didn’t care, as long as it got him closer to Bucky, or at least to finding out where he was. “I’ll take it.”

“So where are you really from?” Dr. Erskine says, looking over his enlistment form.

“Brooklyn.” Steve answers automatically, unable to tear his eyes away from Erskine as he grabs the 1-A stamp and presses it against his form.

“Congratulations, soldier.” Dr. Erskine says, his eyes sparkling.

 

* * *

 

_September 30, 1943_

_Bucky,_

_Something I still can’t piece together is why you moved in with me. And why you stayed in Brooklyn instead of your place in Dumbo. Obviously Brooklyn is the superior borough, but it still doesn’t make sense for someone like you. It makes even less sense why you’d move in with me. I thought you were crazy when you moved from your place in Brooklyn to our apartment. You complained the whole damn time we were looking and moving in, but yet you stayed. I gave you every out, but you moved in with me nonetheless. Why? I read you got a couple of houses just in New York alone. Why would you give up mansions for something that’s barely above a tenement? If you wanted to play poor, you slummed it plenty all those times you slept over at the old apartment. In hindsight, you were probably very disturbed by the fact that the toilets weren’t made of solid gold and that you could hear rats in the walls at night. At least now when I get mad at you I can think of the image of you, terrified of the real world while we were camped out on the couch cushions._

_Stuff still doesn’t make sense. And I don’t know if I’ll ever know, because I don’t know if you’ll even want to read these after all of this. You moved clear out of the apartment and I can’t find a damn thing that’s left of you here. Is that what you wanted to do with my life? When it stopped being fun and adventurous? Were you just going to leave too?_

_I still hope you’re doing okay. I’ve included some of those chocolates you like._

_Steph_

* * *

 

Bucky hates Italy. He misses the beach and handmade pasta Italy, not the Italy that cakes his face with dirt and smells constantly like gunpowder and death. They’re in the thick of it now, sent to Azzano to meet the Germans pushing south. They’ve been exchanging gunfire for hours now, Bucky’s nerves frayed to nothing as he presses his back against the packed earth of a trench. He breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth, shutting everything else out as he turns, looks through his scope, picks off the Nazis one by one with quick, detached efficiency. He can’t think about how much he hates himself, how he’s so sure he’s going to die here, how they might not be able to recover much of his body if one of those tank blasts hits him. The only source of comfort is knowing that Steve is in Brooklyn, safe and away from this hell on earth.

Another blast to his right sends him sprawling, his ears ringing with the explosion as he flattens himself against the earth. Dugan is screaming something at him but he can’t hear a damn thing, blinking slowly at him like he just woke up. Suddenly, Dugan’s nearly on top of him, diving out of the way as a blast of something blue shoots overhead. He doesn’t need to hear to read Dugan’s lips as he yells, “ _What the fuck?_ ”

His hearing comes back gradually as he lies there in the trench, bolts of blue screaming past without any following explosion. There’s a lull in the fighting and Bucky holds a hand out to stay Dum Dum, peeking over the edge of the trench. He watches as another bolt fires from a tank, hitting a sandbag parapet two hundred feet from him and disappearing it into thin air. Bucky gulps and hits the ground again, his mind racing a million miles an hour. That isn’t possible—what he saw wasn’t _possible_. He must have lost his marbles out here, the same way he’s seen so many men go through out here. He’s started hallucinating, his mind cracking in two from the stress of the field and what he has going on back home. But when Dugan peers over the edge and watches a whole fence of barbed wire disappear in a flash of blue, he hits the ground with such a surprised thud that Bucky knows he saw it too.

Bucky opens his mouth to speak, but he’s cut off by a too-close shout of German. Bucky translates immediately, swallowing hard. “He wants us to surrender. Hands up, guns down.” He glances at whoever is left of his company, making the call. Whatever the fuck that thing is, they aren’t going to survive it. At least if they’re captured, there’s a chance they can get rescued later. If they try and fight whatever is shooting out of that tank, they’ll all die out here, and Bucky does not have plans to go home in a body bag today.

He shouts to surrender, throwing down his gun and crawling out of the trench as slowly as he can, his hands in the air. His heart pounds in his throat, death so close he can taste it on his tongue. The Germans across from him nod and rush forward, seizing his wrists and wrestling them behind his back. He squeezes his eyes shut, thinks of the time he taught Steve how to dance in their living room, and shuts everything else out.

 

* * *

 

_October 1, 1943_

_Bucky,_

_You drive me crazy._

_I hope the Chesterfields get past the censors. I hope you still like them. I’ll try and send V-Mail when I can, but the packages might take a bit longer to get through._

_Steph_

 

* * *

 

Steve shows up at Camp Leigh three days later, a suitcase full of war strategy books at his side as he looks out at the rest of the candidates. He still isn’t sure why Dr. Erskine chose him for this, less sure of himself now that he’s seeing the other stocky, battle-ready men. He did say he could only offer Steve a chance, but his odds of being selected are growing slimmer by the second. He sets his things by his bed and walks out to line up with the rest of the men, holding his chin high and trying not to look as intimated by the other men as he feels.

 

* * *

 

Howard scrubs a hand over his face, flipping through the candidate files for Project Rebirth. He’s been working like a dog ever since he was recruited by Colonel Chester Phillips for the new Strategic Scientific Reserve unit. It was exactly up his alley, breaking the laws of nature and setting himself up to shape not only the outcome of this war, but the world as they knew it. But the SSR was prioritizing secrecy over everything, essentially keeping Howard locked away from the rest of the world as he worked on the finishing touches of the Vita-Ray machine with Erskine. Now they just needed guinea pigs, which were in short supply with most of the men already fighting overseas; still, they had apparently managed to recruit a halfway decent bunch.

He stops cold as he flips to the next file, swearing under his breath. _Rogers, Steven G._ stares back at him like a slap in the face, making Howard nearly laugh out loud with the impossibility of it all. He opens the file in a rush, scanning down the details to confirm the address he had received from Bucky. Becca had gotten him the letter eventually, pestering his father until he acquiesced delivering it to him the next time Howard surfaced. He knows he shouldn’t have been surprised that Bucky got drafted and was surprised that it had taken almost a full year for his number to be pulled, but it didn’t stop him from drinking an entire bottle of whiskey alone in his lab after he read it.

He stopped thinking about it after that, throwing himself doubly into his work and avoiding sleep like the plague. Sleep brought dreams, which meant nightmares, which meant Bucky being blown to bits over and over again in his head. So he shuts it all down, instead choosing to run himself down to the bone ‘till he’s too tired to see straight, let alone dream. He hadn’t forgotten his promise to Bucky, but he certainly never expected to actually do anything about it. It wasn’t as though he was connected to the local police beat in Brooklyn and didn’t have the opportunity to leave his labs very often, much less keep tabs on his competition. Naturally, Steve fucking Rogers had to waltz through his life once more, unknowingly signing up to be Howard’s lab rat.

He had never seen a picture of the kid and was surprised by how scrawny he was, barely pushing 100 pounds if his records were to be believed, and squinting at the camera like he was uncomfortable with attention being focused on him. He wasn’t someone that Howard would have immediately dismissed, but he also wasn’t someone he would have slummed it for just to get him in bed. Howard pushes the jealousy down and away, chewing on the inside of his cheek. The kid had a billion and four health issues—it was a miracle he made it to 24 at all. He doesn’t know how the hell Erksine found him or why he chose him, but Steve will most certainly not make it out of his Vita-Ray machine alive; the thing would fry him in seconds. Even if it _did_ work, he’s not about to send him out with the rest of the super-soldier team so that Bucky could kill him when he got back for helping Steve get to the front. He stares at his file for a few more moments before picking up his phone, dialing Phillips.

“Stark? What in God’s name do you want? You know it’s the first day of candidate selection.” Phillips barks as a way of answer, charming as ever.

“Pull Rogers.” Howard flips through the slim file, rubbing at his temples. Christ, why was he doing this? Damn his conscience.

“Excuse me?”

“Rogers. Steven. The little thing. I’m not putting him in that damn machine, I don’t care where Erskine got him.”

Howard hears the creak of a chair and Phillips huff into the phone. “Yeah, I can see him from my window. Breaks my heart—he’s a full goddamn foot shorter than some of these men. I’m not thrilled about havin’ him here either, but I gave Erskine his pick.”

“You pull him, or I’m out.” Howard threatens, pinching the bridge of his nose. Dammit, dammit, _dammit_ his soft spot for Bucky was going to be the death. But he knew that Phillips and the SSR needed him, regardless of how well the project was coming along. Can't fight a war without weapons, and making things explode was Howard's favorite pastime.

The line goes silent, Howard already wincing at the storm about to hit him over the phone. But Phillips just says, very quietly and dangerously, “You’re catching hell for this from Erskine.” Before Howard can say another word, the line goes dead. He sighs, tips his head back in the chair, and groans. Bucky Barnes owed him the goddamn world once he got back.

 _If_ he got back.

He shakes the thought from his head and picks up another file.

 

* * *

 

Steve blinks, confused as all hell as Colonel Phillips barks at him to get into his office. He stands in front of the Colonel, twisting his hat between his hands.

“Is there a problem, sir?”

“You’re goin’ home, kid.” Phillips doesn’t even look at him, shuffling through the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

Steve starts, almost choking on his words. “Sir?”

“Orders are orders. I don’t make the rules. Well, not all of them.” He glances up at Steve, looking only slightly apologetic. “Sorry, kid.”

Steve opens and shuts his mouth several times before, unable to find anything he could appropriately stay to make him stay. Was it because of his size? Was there something wrong with his record? Why the hell would they let him make it this far only to pull him out? Phillips looks at him pointedly and Steve apologizes, almost tripping over himself as he backs out of the room. Thankfully he avoids the gaze of the other men, all watching the beautiful dame with the perfectly coiffed hair as she walks down the line appraising them. He bites back the stinging in his eyes as he grabs his suitcase from the foot of his bed, willing himself not to be such a _child_ and cry in the middle of a fucking barrack.

His only impossible shot to get to Bucky, going up like smoke within seconds.

He scrubs at his eyes roughly before pushing out the barrack door.

 

* * *

 

_October 2, 1943_

_Bucky,_

_I need to just come out and say it. I’ve had one too many nightmares about you not coming back and it’s making me realize just how much I can’t give up on you, no matter how angry I am. I still want to punch your teeth out and shake you until everything you’ve done makes sense, but dammit Buck I can’t live without you. I can’t. And maybe if you’re an ocean away, you’ll have time to process it and I guess you can just pretend that these letters never got to you. Or you could decide that you never want to talk to me again, which I suppose would be fair too. But I’m tired of keeping secrets, because there’s been a dozen years of it now under our belts between both of us, apparently._

_I love you._

_I think I’ve loved you for a long time, from even before I even knew what it meant to be in love with someone. I think I fell in love with you the second you came to my house with that stupid suit, sweating like a prostitute in Christmas Mass because you didn’t know if Ma would like you. I think I fell in love with you when you got me Met tickets for my birthday and told me that my art was great and encouraged me to apply for that stupid art contest even though you were rigging it the entire time, damn you. I fell for you when you took us up on the ferris wheel even though you’re afraid of heights, and when you taught me how to throw a punch instead of telling me to calm down. I mean, you told me that plenty too, but that’s not the point here._

_I don’t know why you did all of those things for me. I don’t know why you spent nearly half your life trying to impress me, to give me things without me realizing it was you, and to be in my life. I don’t understand why you moved in with me in a shitty (your word, not mine), apartment when you clearly didn’t have to, or why you went to all these lengths to keep the rest of your life a secret from me. But I do know that you saved my life a couple of times, that you helped Ma live longer than she would’ve otherwise, that you always supported my art. I don’t know why you did all of the things you did, but I know that I loved all of them._

_There was a time where I thought you could like me back, but I know now how stupid I was. I know that I would never be able to be with you. I bet you got another girl lined up, somebody rich and pretty and knows how to dance with you without stepping on your toes. I know that even if you did ever want me back, that we could never actually be together. It was a pipe dream then and it’s just become more apparent at how naive I was for ever, even for a second, thinking that it was a possibility. I understand that it won’t happen. I’m not that naive anymore._

_But I also can’t stand secrets between us anymore. So if you hate me forever for this and never want to see me, then so be it. It will break me into a thousand pieces, but at least I understand now. If you want to pretend that this letter was never delivered, lost in the post along with dozens of other letters to servicemen that must get lost every day, then that’s okay too. But I need you to know, because I can’t live the rest of my life carrying this around. Most importantly, I need you to know that I don’t hate you. I don’t. Bucky. I tried. God, I tried so hard to hate you after you left. But I can’t, because never in a million years could I hate you. I love you so much that it hurts to breathe sometimes, and if this is the way I convince you that I don’t hate you and that you always have someone to come back to in Brooklyn, then this is it._

_I’m still mad. But I love you so damn much. And that’s why all of this hurts so much more—because I loved you through all of it and then found out you had lied, and that I never had a shot in hell with you._

_Like I said, naive._

_S_

 

* * *

 

Bucky doesn’t know where they are when they get out at the facility, sacks still covering their heads until they’re in their cells. He’s shoved roughly into bars before the rough canvas is torn off his head and his binds slashed, letting him move around in the small space he’s currently sharing with at least fifteen other men. The guards explain in halting English that they are prisoners of war, lucky to be alive and given an opportunity to serve Hydra—whatever the fuck _that_ was. They will be given labor assignments in the morning and two meals a day, kept until they collapse or become useful to the Germans in some other way, smirking and providing no further details.

He learns that there are around 150 men from the 107th left, as well as a few from other regiments from the Allied powers being kept here. He doesn’t know if the missing men made it out alive or if they were blasted to bits by the fucking scary tech they’ve got their POWs producing, but he hopes to hell they made it back to the Italian base. They’ll be a rescue, he tells himself. Of course there will. There’s no way in hell they’d let this many able-bodied men sit behind enemy lines, regardless of where they are. He has to have faith that they’ll come for them, that _someone_ will come for them.

They’re worked like dogs at the weapons facility, working eighteen hour days churning out more of those nightmare weapons that Bucky previously thought only existed in pulps. The Germans—Hydra, Nazis, whoever the fuck they are—start taking his fellow Allied soldiers, one by one, for some unknown reason. Wherever it is that they go, they don’t come back, and Bucky would rather not think about the source of the haunting screaming coming from the other side of the facility. The best they can do right now is keep their heads down during the day and plan at night, their exhausted minds trying to work together to track guard patterns, find a weakness to exploit in the facility. He had gotten close to a few of the men from the 69th while they marching to Azzano—mainly Dugan, who drives him crazy and knows his family name but treats him just the same as any other soldier—but the Germans had accumulated men from all over the Allied forces. His cell’s got Brits and Frenchmen, even a goddamn _Ranger_ from California with a sharp tongue that Bucky appreciates instantly.

They do their best to stay alive and under the radar, calculating how long they think it would be until a rescue could safely be made. It’s anyone’s guess as to where they are in Europe now, but they doubt it’s anywhere near the front. As long as they remain useful to the Germans, they can stay alive. They just need to stay alive.

Then Bucky starts to cough.

 

* * *

 

_October 5, 1943_

_Bucky,_

_Please come home. Please come back. I don’t care if you come back to me, as long as you come back. Even if you think I’m a prideful bitch and never want to see me again, just please come back safe._

_I drew you from memory today. It’s on the back of this letter. Don’t forget who you were before this war. You can come home. You will come home._

_You have to come home._

_S_

 

* * *

 

Steve glances down at the magazine, squinting against the afternoon sun as he looks at the mansion in front of him. It’s bigger than anything he’s seen in Brooklyn—the kind of house he would mistake for a museum if he didn’t know any better. This was just one of Bucky’s homes—according to the magazine, the Barnes had several properties scattered throughout New York alone, not to mention the dozens of homes they owned across the US and elsewhere. He doesn’t know what else to do with his time, tired of being stuck in the apartment that reminds him too much of Bucky and unable to pick up extra hours at work. So he’s started riding the subway on weekends, trying to find the properties the Barnes own for some kind of connection with Bucky. He misses him so goddamn much it hurts, grating against him every day until he can’t take it anymore. There isn’t any part of Bucky left in his apartment—save the art—so Steve takes his heartbreak outside the apartment to find for more pieces of the man he loves despite the lies.

He lived here. At least, he had stayed here for some amount of time—this was one of their fall homes, where they hosted Thanksgiving parties and entertained the artists that came through in a near-constant cycle of parties. It’s near-unbelievable, that they were partying throughout the Depression as people were dying of starvation in the streets. Even now, when their son is overseas fighting fascism and the country is in the midst of another global war, his family continues to throw lavish parties for the wealthy and rich of New York.

It makes him want to scream, so he keeps reminding himself that it’s part of Bucky. He squints through the bars in the fence, trying to imagine Bucky throwing a football around in the front yard, or stretching on the grass. He still had a hard time picturing him in any of these places, despite his realization that Bucky had always been comfortable around wealth. He had always walked around the world like he owned it, and Steve supposes essentially did. Still, it’s hard to reconcile the Bucky he knew that laid out without a second thought on their ratty couch and read penny comics with the Bucky that plays croquet and uses more than 3 utensils per meal.

He wraps his fingers around the bars, peering into a piece of Bucky’s secret, second life. A life without Steve. Did his family know he existed? Did his family know that Bucky lived in an apparent hovel with a slum rat in the middle of Brooklyn’s roughest neighborhood? Maybe they encouraged it, to give their son “life skills”. Maybe they never knew and thought he had shacked up with some woman. His face burns with that implication, tearing himself away from the mansion and flipping to the next page.

Ugh, the Hamptons. Of _course_.

 

* * *

  
_October 10, 1943_

_Bucky,_

_I hope at least one of my letters will get there soon, but there’s no real way of telling with international post. There’s also no way of knowing if you’ll actually respond to me. I understand if you don’t, but I hope you do. It kills me to not know if you’re okay or not. I hate being this far away from you. I thought when you left for training it was bad, but at least I knew you’d come home when you had furloughs. This...this is much worse. I don’t know when I’ll see you again, or if I’ll hear from you at all._

_I hope they’re treating you well out there. I’ve put an extra pair of socks in here, since all of the newspaper columns say that it’s what the soldiers always want. There’s another package of Chesterfields, too. It’s odd to think that all of the things I’ve considered your favorites are probably things you wouldn’t even touch outside of being around me. It hurts, the realization that you don’t know your best friend after all. How much of it was real?_

_Do you really like apple tart?_

_S_

 

* * *

 

The sickness sweeps in quick, making his breath come in wet gasps and his mind hallucinating with fever. He can barely stand up straight, let alone work. He fumbles with the equipment and dents something that looks like a container, earning a rough beating that he can barely feel around the feverish haze. All he knows is that he’s back in his cell, lying on the ground to find some relief for his burning face, and that Dum Dum is yelling at the other men that he’ll die if he keeps working like this.

He’ll die.

He almost smiles at the thought, the irony of it all not lost on him despite his addled brain. How fitting, for him to survive the war and the Nazis’ weird weapons, but fall prey to some disease that’s burning him up from the inside out. He probably caught it in Azzano when they were slogging through the freezing rain for hours, unable to set fires to dry themselves out for nearly a week. He wonders if he’s got the same thing Steve did all those years ago, that first winter they knew each other when he burned with pneumonia. Maybe it was karma, divine retribution for what he did to Steve. He supposes he deserves it.

He doesn’t know how much time passes until Dugan and Morita are at his side, shaking him awake gently. He barely understands what’s going on, is dimly aware of an accident that killed the Nazi that beat him and left him with at least a few broken ribs. They’ve been pretending to be him on shifts, banding together to protect their Sergeant. He thinks he mumbles a thanks before tumbling back into darkness, dreaming of Steve saving him with a body three times his previous size. Wild dreams, indeed.

The next day, he’s kicked roughly in his broken ribs by a Nazi, who barks at him to get up and follow him. He’s been selected by the doctor, he is told in heavily-accented English with a sneer. He should be lucky to receive such an honor. He can’t fight back in his condition, only slumps weakly against the guards as they drag him from the cell.

 

* * *

 

_October 15, 1943_

_Bucky,_

_I’ve tried to wait a bit longer between letters, just in case you don’t want to hear from me. But dammit, if I haven’t spent my entire life stuck in your orbit. Needing to talk to you is as natural as needing to breathe, Buck. You’re as much a part of me as anything else is, though you’re a little more functional than my lungs. I feel like I can’t breathe when you aren’t here, damn the cliches and jokes about my asthma. They say heartbreak can kill people and it sometimes really feels like I’ll keel over from the hurt of it all. You’d probably be really pissed, though, if you went to go win the war and came back to that. You always did say I had a flair for the dramatics._

_Remember when you tried to teach me how to swim? And I was positive that I would drown? That’s kind of what it feels like now, except you’re not here to hold my waist and keep me above water this time. I hate turning to make a joke in an empty apartment because you aren’t here. I hate not even being able to open the drawers and pretend you’re still here because you’ve taken all your things. I hate not being able to sleep at night and wondering what else you’ve been keeping from me. I hate thinking about the other girls you must have, or if anyone in your real life even knows about me. If you disappear on me, will anyone even think to tell me that you’re okay?_

_I miss you so fucking bad. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before and don’t think I’ll ever be able to feel this way about someone ever again._

_I think you’re it, Buck. You’re my whole world and you’ve been my whole world for so long that I don’t even know how to conceive a life with you not in it. I’m hoping and praying that some of you is the same person I’ve always known, because I don’t think the person I’ve always known would hate me just because I love you. God, I hope I’m right._

_I just hope you don’t hate me for what I said to you before you left. And for not coming back._

_I did come back, the night before you left. I don’t even recognize the sketch you left—I know it’s mine, but I haven’t used that style in years. Why did you have it, and what kind of hell did you put it through that it’s barely recognizable now? You’re a man of a million mysteries and all I want is the chance to talk through them with you. If you’ll let me._

_I don’t expect you to love me back. In fact, I know that you don’t. But I do wish you would stay in my life. I don’t know what that even looks like now that we’re in this beyond messed-up situation, but please don’t leave like that._

_I wish I had known where you were at the night before you shipped out. I just about tore Brooklyn apart just to find you. I even wandered around Dumbo trying to find you, even though you never told me exactly where you lived there and I hadn’t heard you talk about it in years. I have no idea where you lived. Every time I’ve needed to get in contact with you because of an emergency, like the time I had pneumonia or when the hurricane hit Long Island, you had always found me first. I never needed to know where you were because you always found me, without fail._

_But you didn’t come back that night. Of course you didn’t come back, shipping out in the morning and not having a reason to stay in an empty apartment with someone that just shouted their worst qualities at them. You had no reason to stay, or to come after me. But we didn’t get to say goodbye. Every time I remember that, I feel like my heart’s being ripped straight from my chest. I’m so sorry, Bucky. I don’t know how to balance the justified anger I felt that night with the fact that I still didn’t get to say goodbye. I don’t. I don’t know how to reconcile any of this right now but I do know that if you were here, things would be easier to figure out. If you were here, I could breathe a little easier and things would make more sense because they always do when you’re around. But right now I’m alone and scared and you’re half a world away and I have no idea if you’re okay or where you are, so things aren’t good. I’m not good. I need you here, Buck. I need you to come back and explain and make me understand why you did this. I need you to restore my faith in the man I fell in love with so that I’m not still madly in love with a liar who betrays his own friends for reasons I can’t even start to fathom._

_Please. Please help me make sense of it._

_\- S_

 

* * *

 

In Steve’s defense, he didn’t start the fight. The other boy did, by talking over the propaganda reels before the movie— _Thousand Cheers—_ started. Steve already felt like a live wire every day ready to snap at a moment’s notice, and the guy just had to go on and disrespect the reels as they showed ways to support the war effort. To Steve, this man was directly disrespecting Bucky in specific, hurling popcorn at the movie screen and shouting to get on with the movie. Everyone else in the theatre was clearly uncomfortable and upset, but the crowd was overwhelmingly women and old men, unable to put this man in his place without putting themselves in danger first.

Steve leaned forward, hissing towards the man. “Hey, wanna shut up and show a little respect?” The man turned in his seat slowly, looking Steve up and down in the dim light.

“Wanna take this outside, little man?”

That was all it had taken for Steve to see red, all but rushing out of the theatre and into the alley to give this guy a piece of his mind. He barely got to show the guy all the moves he had learned from Bucky though, catching him in the jaw with a right hook before Steve even had the chance to say a word. The guy was big—much bigger now that he was standing in front of Steve, but he refused to back down. There was no Bucky to stop him this time, because Bucky was thousands of miles away probably scared out of his damn mind and ignoring Steve’s letters. Maybe Bucky hated him. Maybe Bucky was already dead. He channeled the fear and anger into his fists, trying to land a punch on the guy. He was too mad to be tactile about it though, and the man easily dodged his swings, using his momentum to swing him straight into trash bags.

He grabbed a trash can lid, whipping at the guy in a blind attempt at confusing him enough to recover. He ended up, surprisingly, hitting the guy straight in the chest. Unfortunately, all it did was make the brickhouse of a man even angrier, landing a punch to Steve’s nose with a sickening crunch that Steve recognized all too well. He had broken his nose _again_ , something that was more frustrating than painful now. He hated the crooked way his nose had set the other four times he had broken it and wasn’t thrilled about how this one would look once it was healed.

He managed to get one well-placed punch in to the guy’s jaw but was quickly overpowered, the man all but tossing him into the brick wall with a sneer. Steve spat out blood and wiped the corner of his mouth, glaring up at the guy.

“Something to prove, little fella?” He laughed, kicking Steve straight in the ribs. Steve doubled in on himself, nausea rolling over him in waves from the pain.

“Hey? What the hell’s going on here?” A shout from the mouth of the alley gave Steve some reprieve from the beating, his head lifting to see the fuzzy outline of a police officer running at them. He coughed once, swearing under his breath as his vision went black.

 

* * *

 

“Hey kid, wake up.” He groaned as someone slapped his face gently, hissing as they connected with fresh cuts.

“Sorry, pal. Had to get you to come around somehow. Here.” A young police officer comes into view, handing him an ice pack as he leans against a desk. Steve dimly realizes that he’s in an interrogation room, one of his wrists chained to the chair. The police officer follows his gaze and shrugs apologetically.

“We had to make sure you weren’t gonna swing on one of us. Good thing you’re light—had a hell of a time maneuvering you in here, though.” He chuckles like any of this is funny, playing around with a pen. “You’re under arrest, by the way. We couldn’t really let you know when you were all conked out like that, but…” He gestures to the room around him. “Battery charges.”

Steve looked at him incredulously, wishing he had a mirror to see how bad his face looked. “Battery? He attacked _me_.”

“He’s here too. You’ll be kept in separate cells, no worries.” The officer flips the pen around in his fingers, shrugging again. “You look much worse than him, but you were still fighting in the street.”

Steve dimly wondered why the police had taken him in _now_ of all times, when he had gotten into scraps far worse back when he was younger.” He was insulting the war reels they play before the pictures. I asked him if he could show a little respect and, well…” He trailed off, gesturing to his face.

The police officer looked amused, a fact that nearly sent Steve into another rage. “Can’t help you on that one, kid. Takes two to tango. He sighs, tossing the pen onto the table with a clatter. “Your bail’s posted at $20, otherwise you’ll be released in three days time. It’s your first offense and you look more like a victim, so there won’t be a trial or nothing.”

Steve’s heart sinks, knowing that he’ll be fired immediately if he misses 3 days of work, especially if it gets out that he’s in _jail_. But he also doesn’t have $20 to spare, not if he wants to eat this month. He tries taking deep breaths and rationalizing it all, too afraid to panic and have an asthma attack here where he doubts they’d have an asthma cigarette or nebulizer on hand.

He’s made to sign a few documents and taken to his cell, where another officer tosses him a few bandages and alcohol to clean and bandage his wounds. He tapes a big piece of gauze over his nose, his head already throbbing from the damaged sinuses. He knows if Bucky could see him now, he’d be yelling at him up and down until he tired himself out, going on about how he was gonna get himself killed out there if he wasn’t careful and how he needs to learn how to pick his fights. Bucky wouldn’t want Steve fighting on account of him, but he can’t seem to find it in himself to feel remorseful. The bastard had it coming to him, and Steve needed something to make him feel more than overwhelming despair and panic at Bucky being gone. At least when he was in a fight, he only felt the physical.

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, a guard comes by to unlock his cell, ushering him out. “Free to go, Mr...Rogers.” He says, glancing down at the piece of paper.

“I’m sorry?” Steve asks, warily getting to his feet.

“Your bail’s been paid. You’re free to go.” The guard says, entirely uninterested in the conversation.

Steve stops, his eyebrows furrowing as he runs through the list of people he knows that have enough money to pay that bail and would even _care_ about him that much to pay. Not to mention the fact that he hadn’t called anyone, which meant that no one could have known he was even in jail to begin with.

“Can I ask who paid it?” He says, slipping out of the bars before the guard decides to throw him back in there on a whim.

The guard just shrugs, herding him towards the door. “Just says _H.S._ on the form. Dunno, kid. Stay out of trouble.”

Steve wanders out of the police station and stops on the sidewalk, tipping his head up to the sunset. He racks his brain for anyone he knows with the initials _H.S._ but can’t think of a damn person.

What the hell?

 

* * *

 

_October 21, 1943_

_Bucky,_

_I talked to a couple WACs today when I was taking my lunch. They told me that anything I sent from September should’ve gotten to you by now, especially if I sent it through V-Mail. Maybe it’s because a lot of them were physical letters and packages. I don’t know. You should have gotten the V-Mail ones, though, and I pray you aren’t mad at me. Please write back, at least once. I just need to know that you’re okay._

_Always yours.  
S_

 

* * *

 

The good news was that the pneumonia went away almost immediately after they injected him with something. The bad news was that it burned like fire in his veins and left him screaming and writhing on the table, unable to tell up from down. He doesn’t know who the hell these people are, only knows a tiny man with a pinched face and big glasses that calls him _Sergeant Barnes_ with a Swiss accent. And he knows _pain_ , like he’s being seared from the inside out with something that doesn’t let up. Every injection leaves him delirious with it, that damn fucking doctor bringing him back to consciousness every time he blacks out from the pain. His throat is raw from screaming, though he can barely tell when it’s his voice or something else at this point. He hallucinates vividly, strapped to the table as he tries to reach for a Steve that isn’t there and a Becca that won’t look at him no matter how much he yells her name.

He wants to die. He wants the pain to end and would take whatever comes after death over this hell on earth, fire in his veins and in his organs and on his skin.

They cut into him at first, just a few slices here and there to see what happens. They’re fascinated by how quickly his body heals, the skin stitching over itself far quicker than any human’s. That brings more injections, more fever, more impossible pain that makes Bucky arch off the table in agony.

He doesn’t know how long he’s there for. Days, weeks, _months_ , he has no clue. All he knows is that they put him through endless experiments and tests, breaking his bones and injecting him with things that make him vomit and shake, holding candles to his skin until it starts to char away. But he heals, impossibly, every single time.

He thinks it must be winter when the doctor tells him they’re ready for their biggest test yet. He’s freezing half of the time and can dimly make out snow falling outside of the grimy windows in the hall, though he’s not allowed to go outside and kept in the dark for most of his days. He wonders if they’ll finally kill him, if this will be the thing that finally does him in. He barely knows himself anymore, can dimly remember his name and number, but it feels like they belong to someone else. They belong to someone who had hopes and dreams and a family and someone to love and wasn’t being taken apart like a lab rat in some goddamn Nazi station in the middle of Europe.

Whatever they put him through before does not dull the pain as they saw away at his left arm, cutting it clean off at the shoulder as he is kept awake with adrenaline to watch. He screams and screams as they cut through sinew and bone and arteries, severing his dominant arm from his body in a sickening whir. He’s vaguely aware that someone is screaming Steve’s name, over and over again like a prayer. He doesn’t realize that the person screaming was him until it’s over, tears streaming down his face and his body shuddering violently with pain.

The doctor looks at him and smiles that horrible, godawful smile that makes Bucky certain that this is the devil and he’s in hell for what he did to Steve.

“Don’t worry, Sergeant Barnes. The arm will grow back, if the serum’s regenerative properties are as we projected.”

The arm does not grow back.

 

* * *

 

_October 30, 1943_

_Bucky,_

_I drew another portrait for you here. I hope you’re eating well. If you need anything, just let me know. I suppose that’s a stupid thing to say, knowing what you can get with all your money and connections, but...still._

_I still care for you and want to take care of you. If you’ll let me._

_Yours,  
S_

 

* * *

 

Steve is juggling a bag of groceries and his keys as he tries to open the door to his apartment, swearing at the way the lock sticks. He should really mention that to the landlord, especially now that he knows Bucky has him in his back pocket. He shoulders the door open when he hears footsteps behind him, like someone is running at him. He turns sharply, half-prepared to fight whoever’s coming at him when–

Becca.

He’d recognize her anywhere now after gathering virtually everything on the Barnes he could find, memorizing her face as easily as he had memorized Bucky’s. Even without knowing her face, he would be able to make the connection—she’s unmistakably Bucky’s sister with her blue eyes, perfectly-curled brown hair, and a jawline that could cut glass.

He all but drops the grocery bag, fumbling it and sending the contents spilling all over the hall. He looks up at her in horror, but she doesn’t even seem to notice that he’s spilled a pound of potatoes in front of her. She’s white as a sheet as she looks him up and down, pressing a shaky hand to her lips.

“Steve?” She asks, almost not believing that he’s actually him.

“Rebecca?” He asks, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “What–”

“Oh god. It’s Jamie– it’s Bucky.” She stutters, her throat tight with tears. “He’s, I– he left a letter for me for– to find you if–” She stops herself, looking as though she might faint right there in the hall.

“Steve, they sent us a telegram. He’s been presumed killed in action.”


	11. fall 1943-spring 1944

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all! so sorry for the slow updates. i'm currently working 80+ hours a week and 90% of it is driving, so i am exhausted and don't have a ton of time for writing. so i'm doing my best to keep this semi-regular but please be patient with me! i love you all <3

Steve feels his vision tilt and spin, a high-pitched ringing in his ears as he stumbles hard against the doorframe. He distantly registers a hand on his elbow, his name urgently repeated, but all he can focus on is those three damn words, blazing hot and impossibly painful.

_Killed in action killed in action killed in action_

He’s brought back to the present by a sting on his cheek, Becca’s determined blue eyes coming into focus above him. She looks only mildly apologetic that she’s just slapped him as she hauls him to his feet with ease. Being stronger than Steve must run in the family, he muses without thinking, a fresh stab of pain overwhelming his system. He staggers against the door, struggling to force air into his lungs. Becca glances both ways down the hallway before pushing past Steve, turning the key the rest of the way in the lock and shoving it open with a grunt. She shuts the door quickly, pulling Steve by the elbow to the couch and sitting him down. She glances around the room, not finding somewhere to sit that wouldn’t leave her skin crawling, crouches down in front of Steve.

“Steven.” She says, squeezing his hands. Her eyes are hard and her jaw set, her emotion reigned in for the moment by needing to take control of the situation. “Stay with me.”

Steve just blinks at her, his head spinning and his lungs on fire. He takes another labored breaths before realizing he isn’t going to come out of the attack by himself, pushing himself up on shaky legs to stumble to the kitchen to find his nebulizer. He feels Becca’s eyes on him as he squeezes the bulb and breathes the medicine down, his hands visibly trembling as he slumps against the counter. They sit in silence for a few minutes while Steve waits for the fire in his lungs to abate, the tick of the clock in the corner impossibly loud. He disappears into the bedroom, bringing out a spare blanket and setting it on the couch for Becca to sit on, presenting it with a little flourish. She hesitates visibly before sitting down, shoving her discomfort over being entirely out of her element down.

“I’m sorry.” Steve croaks, his throat rough as he clears it a few times.

Becca just shakes her head, smoothing her skirt down. “It’s quite alright. He mentioned that you had a touch of asthma.” They both wince at the mention of Bucky and Steve sits down hard next to her, staring blankly at a spot in the wall and trying to make sense of everything.

“What did the telegram say?” He twists his fingers together, trying his best to take things one at a time to prevent another asthma attack.

Becca swallows hard, pulling a yellow slip from Western Union from her purse and pressing it into his hands. She closes her eyes as he reads, her hands balling into fists on her lap. Steve looks down at the piece of paper, struggling to read the words as though his brain is trying to protect him from seeing it confirmed for himself.

`=THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO EXPRESS HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOU SON SERGEANT JAMES B. BARNES HAS BEEN PRESUMED KILLED IN ACTION. SERGEANT BARNES WAS REPORTED MISSING IN ACTION SON THE FIRST OF OCTOBER. FOLLOWING REPORTS, HIS STATUS WAS CHANGED TO PRISONER OF WAR, AS REPORTED BY THE REMAINING MEMBERS OF THE 107TH. THE STATUS OF PRESUMED KILLED IN ACTION FOLLOWS SEVERAL REPORTS FROM THE LOCATION YOUR SON WAS PRESUMABLY TAKEN. ON ACCOUNT OF EXISTING CONDITIONS THE BODY CANNOT BE RECOVERED OR RETURNED AT PRESENT. IF FURTHER DETAILS ARE RECEIVED YOU WILL BE PROMPTLY INFORMED. LETTER TO FOLLOW= `

 `ULIO THE ADJUTANT GENERAL•`

He feels as though the breath has been knocked out of his chest once again, his heart shattering like it had when he saw his mother take her last breath. He reads the message over and over again, unable to rip his eyes away from his worst nightmare come to life. Bucky, gone. Steve wonders if he had ever gotten any of his letters, or if they were sitting at some processing facility, forgotten and surely to be tossed soon. He swallows hard, finds that he can’t, and tries again. He reads over the telegram again, something catching his eye this time.

“Presumed.” Steve says simply, causing Becca to lift her head and look at him. “It says he was presumed K.I.A. But they haven’t found…him.” He knows it’s beyond stupid to hope but his mind refuses to accept that Steve is gone. He would’ve _known_ , he tells himself. He would have felt it, tied together as they were.

Becca just shakes her head again, her features pinched in pain. “They wouldn’t have sent us this unless they were sure. We have…connections with the Secretary of War. My father won’t give me any details, but it’s…” She runs a hand over her curls, struggling to maintain her composure. “He’s gone.”

Steve just stares at the floor, his world crashing down on him silently. One moment, he had Bucky in his life, sending him letters and already preparing for what he would say to him when he got back to the US. The next, Bucky was dead. It’s then that his shock finally gives way to the reality of the situation, crashing into him with the force of a truck and sending him doubling over in physical pain. He tries in vain to choke back a sob but it overtakes him regardless, ripping through him violently and tearing through all of his safety nets. Bucky, _gone_ ; the man he had loved for years, his counterpart, his better side, the water to his flame and the only thing that had kept him upright for the past decade. The man who had lied to him and betrayed years of trust for reasons Steve would never get an explanation for now. His last words to Bucky were sharp, acid-tipped arrows aimed to wound deeply. He couldn’t apologize now. He couldn’t do anything now.

He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes as sobs wrack through his body, far too inside of his own head to even feel ashamed that Becca was right there. He presses his hands in until he sees only bright stars that spot across his vision, dizzying and nothing like the stars that Bucky had taught him to see on lucky Brooklyn nights. It’s all he can do to keep himself from tumbling head-first off of the couch, letting sharp pangs of grief spear through him again and again until he’s sure he’ll die from the pain of it all. The only sure sign that Bucky hadn’t taken his heart to the grave with him is the horrendous twist of pain in the middle of his chest, reminding him cruelly over and over again that he was breathing while Bucky was not.

He doesn’t register the hand on his back right away, only realizing that there’s someone else in this personal hell of his once Becca’s hand starts rubbing up and down his curved spine. The gesture is so simple, so _understanding_ , so like something Bucky would have done for him that it brings on a fresh wave of sobs that leave him hoarse. He wants to scream, wants to hit something until Bucky comes back, is about damn ready to march to Europe himself to drag him back. If there’s anything left. His stomach rolls over at the thought of it and he pushes it down and away, focusing instead on Becca’s hand on his back like a lifeline. As his sniffling subsides, he realizes that she’s crying too—quietly, clearly trying to keep herself in control for Steve or her own image. His heart breaks all over again; he knows too well how much it hurts to lose a family member.

They sit like that, crying silently in the apartment as the sun dips below the horizon and hazy blue filters through the window. Steve can’t tell how much time has passed since Becca first came down the hallway, his entire brain fuzzy and confused. He straightens slowly, his spine screaming in protest as he leans back against the couch cushions. Becca’s hand retreats back into her lap, rubbing her index finger for comfort like she had since she was a child. Steve reaches over and turns on the side table lamp, bathing the room in golden light that seems far too bright for the occasion.

He cannot fathom what is supposed to come next, so he asks Becca in a ragged voice, “How did you find me?”

She gathers herself quickly, bending down and rustling around in her bag again to produce a thick letter. “He…left me this.” She hands it to him, a slit already neatly cut into the top. “He told me to open it if anything happened to him. I know I should have opened it before, but I was afraid of it becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy.” She gives a humorless, shaky laugh. “Guess it didn’t matter either way.”

Steve scrubs the back of his hand over his eyes, sniffs, and takes the envelope. He turns it over in his hands, his heart clenching again at Bucky’s handwriting on the front.

“It’s his will.” Becca explains quietly, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Along with all of the necessary paperwork. He left everything to you.”

Steve stops cold, halfway to pulling out the first sheet of paper. “What?” His head spins again, sure that he’s heard her wrong.

“He named you as his beneficiary for the Army and left you everything. All of his bank accounts, his assets, anything he inherited or was set to inherit.” She twists her fingers in her lap, her voice still shaky. “Before he left, he said that you had found out about...well, about the money. He didn’t elaborate further, but I thought he would have told you about that.”

“He didn’t say anything about leaving me money. Rebecca, I can’t—”

“Call me Becca, please.” She cuts in quickly, lifting her head to look Steve in the eyes. _They have the same eyes_ , Steve thinks with a fresh wave of pain. “It’s all right there. Jamie wanted this, Steve, or he wouldn’t have done it. It’s all legally yours—well, as soon as the lawyers get everything sorted out. It’ll take a few months, but I’ll make sure we get our team on it soon.” She focuses on the logistics rather than the circumstances surrounding them to stay afloat, overwhelming grief threatening to consume her.

Steve slowly pulls out the neatly-folded sheets of paper with shaking hands, unfolding the first one and smoothing it on his lap. Bucky’s neat cursive nearly bowls him over with nostalgia and grief, outlining the details of where his inheritance and other assets should go in the case of his death. More money than Steve had ever fathomed was now legally bound to go to him, along with two boats, a yacht, a penthouse apartment in Manhattan, a townhouse in Brooklyn, and all of the art collection he had been amassing over the years. He didn’t care. He would rather live the rest of his life in that goddamn icebox of an apartment with his ratty couch and the window that always stuck than have all the money in the world but not Bucky. He wanted slate-blue eyes and tousled brown hair and an easy laugh reserved just for Steve. He wanted broad shoulders and a cocky swagger and _life_. He could have all the money in the world, but it didn’t mean a damn thing if the man who left it to him wasn’t there.

“I know.” Becca cuts into her thoughts, shaking Steve out of his reverie as he realizes he’s been talking out loud. “We want him back too.”

Steve scrubs at his eyes, trying to control the burning behind them before he fell apart in front of Becca again. “Thank you. For coming to find me.” He says, at a loss for what else to say.

Becca just nods, twisting her fingers together in her lap. “Of course. I know you didn’t know about…” She pauses, trying to find the right words. “About us and the money. But he always cared about you. I feel like I’ve known you forever even though we’ve just now met.” She gives him a small, sad smile that for some reason makes Steve want to cry all over again.

“We didn’t exactly part on good terms.” Steve finds himself saying, finally finding someone that understands some of this fucked-up situation he had found himself in. “He didn’t tell me. I found out from the paper.” He avoids Becca’s gaze, staring down at his feet instead.

“If it helps, he always did want to tell you. He was such a spoilsport on vacations or over the summer when he had to be dragged away from you. He was practically a sentient rain cloud, grumbling the whole time we’d be in Italy.” She smiles privately to herself, catching a tear with the corner of her handkerchief before it rolls down her cheek. “He wanted you there, for what it’s worth. He always did. I just think he was afraid that you would never really trust him if he had told you the truth.” She still didn’t understand why he had done it all. Steve was nice enough, but Becca felt like her skin was crawling every second she was in the apartment and still couldn’t imagine her brother actually _living_ here. She certainly wouldn’t have done any of this for anyone, not even Claudia or Howard when she was still in the throes of puppy love.

Steve focuses on the count of his breath, trying to center himself in a storm that had already broken him down. Bucky had wanted him there. When he was busy enjoying fucking _Italy_ and the Hamptons and wherever else he jetted off to under the guise of “visiting family”, Steve had been busy trying to scrape by on odd jobs over the summer, or helping his mother out around the house. The familiar spark of anger rises hot and sudden within him again and he clings to it, anger easier to focus on than the overwhelming grief sure to consume him. But just as soon as it comes, it’s doused by the reality that Steve wouldn’t have gone anyway. He wouldn’t have wanted to be paraded around as the token poor child to all of Bucky’s family and friends, nor would he have been comfortable leaving his mother in Brooklyn while he wined and dined with the rich. He would have only embarrassed himself—or Bucky—with his lack of knowledge on which of the thousand spoons he was supposed to use at a fancy dinner and tendency to gape at everything. He hates to admit it to himself, but he knows that Bucky was somewhat right in that—he wouldn’t have ever been able to trust that Bucky ever really wanted him as he was. He would have spent his life constantly comparing himself to an impossible standard of company that Bucky kept and second-guessing his friendship and self at every turn—even more than he already did.

It didn’t excuse the lies, nor did it explain why Bucky cared about some poor kid from Brooklyn so much that he went to these lengths to keep it hidden and their friendship intact, but it softened the blow just marginally.

Unfortunately, it was too late now to make amends.

“Do your parents know?” He asks, shoving his hands between his thighs to stop them from shaking.

Becca makes a noncommittal noise, tipping her head to the side. “They knew he’s been living in Brooklyn. Not...here, but he has a house nearby.” She looks around the apartment, struggling to keep her face neutral. “As far as I know, they don’t know about you. Of course, Father knows your name in the vaguest of senses from the scholarship, but Bucky arranged most of that outside of him and I think Father forgot largely about the scholarship program altogether.”

Steve nods slowly, not sure if he should feel better or worse that Bucky had kept Steve a secret from his family as well. Though he can’t suppose it would have been easy to tell his impossibly-rich family what he was doing without them putting a stop to it immediately.

“You can meet them, if you’d like.” Becca offers. Steve’s head snaps up, panic crawling up his throat.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.” He backtracks, shaking his head before he can get anything more out. “I can’t imagine they would take it any better than I did, learning that their son had been lying to them for years.”

“I can twist it as more of an omission of the truth. We can say that you two met when you won the art competition and have kept in touch ever since. We’ll just say James never told you his full name—nobody calls him Bucky but you and Howard, really—and so you never put it together.” He looks up and can’t find it in him to say no to her big blue eyes, sparkling with the first hint of something other than grief. “Please, Steven. Jamie always wanted you to see the other side of his life.”

Steve still can’t imagine himself in the houses he stood in front of just weeks before, actually being allowed past the gates as a guest. But it’s a connection to Bucky—the only things left of him are with his family now. It’s cruel, he thinks, to only be allowed into Bucky’s world after he’s gone from it.

He finds himself nodding, rubbing his nose with the edge of his shirtsleeve.

“Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Steve understands now how Bucky had felt 12 years before, sweating on the front stoop of his old tenement and tugging at his tie before he met his mother. He had worn his best suit—the same one Bucky had bought him for his mother’s funeral—but he still felt woefully under-dressed as he walked down the expansive driveway. His hands kept finding their way to his bangs, trying to wrangle them to lie flat against his forehead, but the wind was stubbornly trying to make him look as though he had just emerged from a wind tunnel. The man guarding the gate to the expansive mansion didn’t believe him when he told him his name, wondering if he was the chauffeur for someone far grander and who weighed more than 100 pounds.

He fidgets horrendously—his ma would kill him if she saw him like this—as he drops the heavy knocker against the huge front door. He has half a mind to turn right around and sprint for the gate—what the hell is he even doing here? He doesn’t belong here, with these people he doesn’t know and who don’t know a thing about him. It was about to be more lies—pretending he didn’t know Bucky better than he knew himself, as though the man who had just died wasn’t the person that Steve had been desperately in love with for years and would give up art and everything he owned and even his goddamn _breath_ if it meant he could get Bucky back. But to his parents he was just Steve: the man who was surprised that the humble friend that occasionally went to art classes with him was the heir to one of the wealthiest families in the nation. He was at least grateful that he didn’t have to feign his surprise.

Before he can turn on his heel and book it out of there, the doors are thrown open by gloved hands, Becca rushing out to greet him in a hug. Steve lets out a startled noise, hugging her back instinctively and focusing on the fact that she smells like nutmeg rather than the terrifying fact that he’s about to meet Bucky’s parents.

“I’m so glad you came.” She murmurs in his ear, pulling back and giving him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. He understands how that feels. He must look downright terrified because her expression shifts, pulling him inside and waving a hand around. “Father and mother are in the sitting room waiting for you. I promise it won’t take very long. They’re so preoccupied with...well, preparations.” She shifts her weight, clearing her throat and avoiding Steve’s eyes for the briefest of moments. “I’ll give you a tour after, yes?”

Steve finds himself nodding again, unable to say much against the overwhelming force of energy that is Rebecca Barnes. He follows her through the winding, too-tall hallways that make Steve feel far smaller than he really is. He can’t deny that it’s a beautiful house, well-decorated with impressive art from every part of the wall strewn on the walls as though it was nothing. But it’s also cold, lacking in the homey warmth that always enveloped Steve like a blanket regardless of where he was living. His apartment in Brooklyn may not have any Riveras, but it looked lived-in and inviting, a home rather than something staged. No wonder Bucky was always coming over when they were younger.

He almost runs straight into Becca’s back as she stops in front of a room, letting someone with white gloves and a pretentious mustache open the door for her. Steve barely has time to process that bizarre interaction before two sets of eyes are turned towards him, intrigued and a little misty. His mother is beautiful, not a hair out of place and her clothing perfectly pressed despite receiving news that her son had been killed not even a week ago. His father cuts an impressive and imposing figure, leaning against the massive fireplace as he scrutinizes Steve.

“This is Steven.” Becca announces, gesturing to him as though he was a new piece of pottery. “Steven, this is my mother, Winifred, and my father, George.”

Steve’s pretty sure he’s going to pass out.

He can’t do this, his chest tight and pulse racing as reality crashes over him again and again. These people are powerful enough to make him disappear from the face of the planet with no trace that he ever existed, or could make him into the world’s most up-and-coming artist—all without even lifting a finger. More than that—and perhaps most importantly—these were the people who raised Bucky. These were the people who loved him more than anything else in the world, who had known him for longer than Steve had ever known him and knew Bucky better than even Steve did. They had just lost their only son and here was Steve, feeling an impostor for standing in their sitting room.

“Oh, honey, call me Winnie.” Bucky’s mom is the first to move, standing up from her spot on the couch and sweeping him up into an embrace in one fluid, impossibly-graceful motion. “Thank you for coming, dear. I’m so glad our James had friends from all sorts of places.” She’s tearing up again, pulling back to look at Steve up and down.

Steve chooses to ignore the comment, instead trying his best to smile at Bucky’s mom and not hyperventilate. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” He says genuinely, swallowing hard as his voice cracks at the end. His father coughs to cover something up, turning away from them both and looking positively miserable to Steve.

Winifred just smiles, her eyes watery as she tries to keep it together in front of company. “Thank you, dear. I’m sure this must be such a shock to you, finding all this out after…” She trails off, clearing her throat. “Our house is your house, whenever you want to stop by. We’re so glad Becca got in contact with you—she’ll be able to get you anything you need. I wish I could be a better hostess, but we are in a bit over our heads, I’m afraid.” She turns towards George, who is still staring into the fire like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“Not at all, Mrs. Barnes– Winnie.” He corrects himself when she shoots him a pointed look. “Thank you so much for having me here. I’m just glad I still get to have a...connection to him. And that you were kind enough to find me and let me know. I had sent letters, but I don’t think any of them made it through.” He suddenly wishes he had a glass of water, or maybe an entire bottle of whiskey. Anything to make the conversation go by easier. “Your house is very lovely.”

Winnie smiles warmly, bobbing her head at Steve. “Thank you, dear. Becca, make sure you feed him!” She looks behind Steve, pointing a finger at her daughter. She shifts her attention back to Steve, running her hands over his arms. “Anything you want, just tell our kitchen staff and they’ll make it for you. James was so withdrawn from so many of his friends before he left—we’re just glad he had you.”

Steve feels the burn of guilt, hot and acrid as it burns its way down his chest. Was he the reason Bucky pulled away from his socialite friends? Did he inadvertently guilt Bucky into living and spending time with him because Steve didn’t have nearly as much as Bucky’s other friends did? He’s spiraling again, second-guessing every interaction once again in the way Bucky had screamed at him that he would. He hated sometimes how Bucky knew Steve better than Steve knew himself.

“I’m glad that I had him as well.” Steve replies, his throat tight and eyes burning.

“Here, Steve, I’ll show you around.” Becca offers, touching his elbow lightly as she steers him towards the door.

“We’ll see you around, darling.” Winnie promises, giving Steve a tiny wave.

“Thank you for everything—truly.” Steve responds before the door is shut behind them, his chest falling with a deep exhale. He closes his eyes, trying to steady himself as the emotions slice through him like knives. There’s a hand on his arm and Becca’s pulling him into another hug, this one far more genuine as she nods against the side of his head.

“I know. I know.” She whispers, her voice thick with emotion as she squeezes him tight.

 

* * *

 

Becca ends up leading him around the house in a half-aimless fashion, circling the spots where Bucky inhabited without going near them in some distorted version of self-preservation. Steve follows in a daze, trying to imagine Bucky walking these same halls, eating in these same rooms. Becca all but shoves food into him, ordering the cook to make Bucky’s favorite dishes and picking at them while Steve inhaled plate after plate of food. He almost gets sick off of how rich it all is, feeling incredibly self-conscious of how they used to eat when Sarah was around, and how simply they cooked after they moved in together. With each new discovery about the way Bucky lived, the more confused Steve becomes—it makes no sense to him why he would choose to live alongside Steve in comparatively horrific circumstances, all seemingly just to make a friend. Sure, he thinks that perhaps it might be hard to make meaningful relationships with people when they only care about status and power, but Becca’s brought up a Howard several times as one of his other good friends, and he assumes that there were other things he could have done to find more meaningful connections.

At the heart of it all is one universal truth Steve has always known—he just doesn’t feel like he was worth it. He had been confused when he first met Bucky, before he knew Bucky was moneyed—he still hadn’t understood why this suave, slick teenager would want to be friends with a scrawny, angry little thing like him. Steve didn’t feel like he had much to offer—he had been told from when he was very young by his teachers and fellow classmates that he was far more trouble than he was worth. After all, why invest your time and energy into a dying boy? But Bucky had. Bucky, who attracted people like moths to flame when they were in public, who shone bright and made people feel like they needed to get to know him. His magnetic personality made him irresistible, yet he always stuck by Steve. He could’ve easily had a million friends from all over New York, yet he stuck with just one little rascal from Brooklyn Heights.

It hadn’t made sense when they were 12, and it sure as hell didn’t make any more sense at 24. But the inescapable fact that he loves Bucky has not changed in those 12 years.

Becca suddenly makes a sharp left into a bright room, surrounded by gauzy curtains and a brilliant grand piano sitting in the corner, gleaming black as though it had just been polished. She doesn’t turn back to Steve, just walks around the room in a slow circle, her eyes roaming over the walls. “The hurricane that hit a few years back—he was in here, playing the piano right before it hit. We didn’t know that there was going to be a storm that strong, and we had to hide upstairs. The whole bottom floor was flooded, this room collapsed right on top of his piano. It was his favorite thing he’s ever had—a white Bösendorfer he got when he turned eight. Made a godawful racket when the ceiling collapsed in on it. It was essentially a pile of splinters after the storm.” She trails her fingers along the top of the case, turning on her heel to look Steve in the eye. “All he cared about was getting to Brooklyn. He barely ate for days, didn’t sleep...didn’t even blink at the fact that his favorite thing in the world had been smashed to smithereens. You should have seen the way he watched the phones, just in case they got the lines up and working again. As soon as he could, he took one of the boats that was still intact and sailed it all the way to Brooklyn.”

Steve realizes that he’s holding his breath, his entire body taut as a bowstring as he tries to wrap his mind around it all. “I don’t think–”

“The entire lower level of our house was underwater. We were all but stranded in the Hamptons for two weeks while they tried to clear the roads. But he found a way to get to you, because he couldn’t stand not knowing if you were okay or not.”

Steve remembers. He remembers the wild, panicked look in Bucky’s eyes when he came through the door, and the way his entire body slumped forward in relief when he saw Steve in one piece. He didn’t press Bucky for details, just made sure to stay close when it stormed to let Bucky know it was there. His heart twists strangely in his chest, a mix of longing and grief that he can’t exactly parse out into distinct emotions. Bucky had done everything to get to him, despite the storm blowing his house to tatters. He had cared, enough that he had taken a boat in surely-choppy waters all the way around Long Island just to find Steve. He had cared.

He had _cared_.

Becca watches him as the realization slowly starts dawning over his face, struggling to choke back emotion as he stared at the piano in front of him.

“Jamie always had friends. Lots of them. But he never cared about them nearly as much as he cared about you. I don’t know everything, but I do know that he wouldn’t have done any of the things he did if he didn’t truly believe you were his best friend in the world.” Becca says softly, her hand dropping from the piano.

“He was the only one I had.” Steve admits, sitting on the piano bench hard, burying his face into his hands and shaking.

 

* * *

 

He ends up visiting Becca several times over the course of the next few months, avoiding Winifred’s pained eyes and George’s blank, dead gaze as he walked with her through the house. He had always been an only child growing up, but Becca was accustomed to having an older boy in the house, almost adopting Steve as her brother in the absence of Bucky. Steve can’t say he blames her, nor does he mind the attention she dotes on him, always sending him home with sweets and scarves that Steve knows he would never be able to wear in public. They sit together on their impossibly-large sofa and look through photo albums upon photo albums of Bucky as a child, sitting for stiff family portraits and being swung around at art galas by some of Steve’s favorite artists. He loves being able to see Bucky as a baby, all fat cheeks and curls and that winning smile he carried into adulthood, though he knows he’s only torturing himself, watching Bucky’s past through a lens he wasn’t able to see until he died. It’s entirely unfair and brings him to his knees again and again with the pain of it all—of trying to live in a world where the person he had been revolving around like an orbiting moon for over a decade of his life was gone.

It does not get easier as Christmas comes and goes quietly, denying the Barnes’ invitation to their annual Christmas party in lieu of sitting at home wrapped in a quilt, screaming into a pillow his rage until his voice went hoarse. It does not get easier to breathe, to get up in the morning, or to keep going. But he somehow does, because it’s all he can do anymore.

Becca works to get the money transferred to Steve, but they go in circles trying to get Steve to sign anything. He won’t, too afraid of bringing the wrath of Bucky’s parents down upon them once they realize just how much Bucky left to him, and unable to bring himself to take a cent of the money that had wrecked their relationship. He doesn’t want any part of it, refuses to move out of his shitty apartment despite all of Becca’s prodding. It used to be _their_ apartment, even if there’s nothing left of Bucky in the apartment anymore. But he still used to sleep in the bed, sit on the couch, pad around their kitchen in the morning rubbing his eyes and making a too-sweet cup of coffee. He would not get rid of it, would not move from the spot they had once called theirs. It was all he had left of him, along with a few pictures from Becca, and his old favorite cashmere sweater he had lifted from his closet when Becca left him alone in his room.

So he stays there, stubbornly, even when she all but knocks down his door with her insistent fist one morning. He’s got a blanket wrapped around his shoulders to fight off the March chill that’s still seeping through the cracks in the window, half-awake and grumbling all the way to the door. He knows it’s Becca he could recognize her distinctive, insistent knock anywhere. She complained endlessly that he wouldn’t allow her to install a phone in his apartment, but he thinks she secretly likes having an excuse to get out of the house and come to Brooklyn. She misses Bucky too, and she must be able to tell that some part of him still lingers in the air of the place.

“Becca, if you’re here with another damn advertisement, I told you that I’m not interested. I don’t care if it’s got sixteen bathrooms and the taxidermied body of George Washington in the foyer. I’m not selling.” He calls through the thin door, sighing as he unlocks the door. She almost knocks him over shoving the door open, slamming it behind her with an almighty clatter. Her eyes are wide and wild, her hair uncharacteristically shooting every which way and breathing hard as though she had just run the entire way here. His heart immediately sinks, bracing for her to deliver some horrible news that will shatter him all over again in new way. But she doesn’t, her eyes ablaze with something that’s more determination and hope than despair. She waves a telegram in the air, shoving it into Steve’s chest and sending him stumbling backwards several steps.

“They’ve found him.” She breathes, her chest still heaving with exertion.

“What?” Steve furrows his eyebrows, trying to turn the paper right-side up to read it. His heart drops his feet again at the Washington, DC address. They must have found his remains and are sending him back to America for a proper burial. They’ve been waiting for months for this to come through, for some measure of closure, but it still breaks open fresh wounds and leaves Steve bleeding.

“No.” Becca rushes to get her words out, tripping over her syllables. “He’s alive. Steve, he’s _alive_.”


	12. spring, 1944

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all! thank you for being patient with me in this. ayy, we just hit 100,000!!!!!!!!! i'm gonna go drink a hard cider alone in my hotel room as celebration.

Steve chokes on his own breath, the blanket around his shoulders falling to the ground as he hacks up a lung. His brain feels like one of the sputtering, dying bulbs on the local theatre marquee, flashing in and out and precariously close to exploding.

Becca, now accustomed to Steve’s bouts of coughing fits, leads him over to the couch and sits him down. He’s dimly aware that this is where Becca broke the news that Bucky had been killed; five months later, they were in the exact same spot, a different kind of disbelief falling over the apartment.

She’s pressing a glass of water into his hands and he gratefully accepts, taking sips until he can talk again.

“What?” He rasps out, clearing his throat a few more times for good measure.

She points to the telegram, her eyes ablaze. “We were just wired this. The Allies have pushed through enemy lines in Austria and sent the Germans scattering. They found hundreds of prisoners of war—it was a work camp for weapons.” Steve’s stomach turns sickeningly over, the accounts of the Nazi camps coming to mind. “The French soldier who escaped to alert the Allies of what had happened reported that all of them were sentenced to death, but the Nazi’s plans must have changed. They’re saying over half of the men who went in there died, but they found him.” She takes Steve’s free hand between hers, squeezing tightly to the point of pain. “They _found him_.”

Steve feels himself sag against the couch, relief flooding his empty bones and filling the places that adrenaline, grief, and chronic exhaustion had hollowed out since Bucky had been declared killed in action. And then, inexplicably, he’s laughing—big, hysterical barks of disbelieving laughter. He buries his face in his hands to stop himself, his back shaking with the effort of holding back the laughter, then with the effort to conceal the relieved, happy tears that make him feel like he’s taking his first full breath of air since October. When he calms down some and lifts his head, Becca’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, something twisting it into a half-grimace.

“What is it?” He can feel his stomach plummet again, trepidation crawling its way back up his throat.

“He’s...well, he’s not going to be able to come home for a while.” She starts, picking at invisible lint on her dress. “They said he was badly injured when they found him.” Becca pauses again, taking a centering breath. “They won’t tell us much, but they did tell us that he...lost an arm.”

Steve feels like the breath’s been punched out of his chest, his heart trying to balance the knowledge that Bucky is _alive_ with the fact that Bucky is _hurt_. He won’t be able to play the violin anymore, he realizes distantly, a sudden thought that tries to make sense of everything else. He makes himself set the glass of water down on the coffee table, gripping it tight enough to break even in his hands. Bucky, alive. Bucky, hurt.

“But he’s okay?” He croaks, screwing his eyes shut. Stupid question, stupid thought. Of course he isn’t okay, held captive by the enemy and missing a goddamn _limb_. But Steve’s brain feels like it’s moving through molasses, slow and hazy and trying to make sense of everything else when the only clear thought that comes through is _Bucky is alive_. Everything else feels distant, secondary.

“They told us he’ll live.” Is all that Becca says, still staring down at her lap. “We don’t know much else.”

They sit in silence, Steve staring hard at the water glass as though it will somehow reveal answers in the ripples.

“Now what?” He asks.

“Nothing to do but wait.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky is dimly aware of his surroundings as he starts to come to—brief flashes of fuzzy light, muffled noises, the vague sense that he was being jostled, as if on a boat. All he can definitively make out is pain—the bone-deep ache of someone that has been kept awake for days at a time, the ever-present fire in his veins that he was sure had already killed him, the sense that something was _missing_. Something new, something different. A new place, perhaps? It’s become hard for him to discern between hallucinations and reality anymore; if there even is a reality left. He knows scalpels, needles, the forest fire raging through his chest whenever they give him something that glows a faint blue. He does not know this newness—wind on his face, the sharp smell of gunpowder, people shouting at him in an accent that isn’t German or Swiss. He can’t hold onto anything for longer than a few seconds, losing it to the haze his brain has become over the past few—days? Months? Years? He can’t tell how long he’s been like this, can’t fathom a life outside of the haze, or what came before it.

“—We’re gonna get you out of here, just hold on.” He can make out a voice, garbled but at least this one’s English. That’s new. Perhaps it’s another one of his fever dreams, the ones where there’s a boy with blonde hair and blue eyes that touches his face and tells him that the war is over and they can go home. He doesn’t have the strength to open his eyes, but he doesn’t think the blonde boy is here. The voices are different, too rough and strange.

He doesn’t know how long it is until he grasps another wisp of conversation, a tug at his neck and the jingle of his dog-tags bringing him almost to the surface.

“Barnes, _Barnes_.” Someone is saying insistently—like they’re looking for someone. He hopes they find whoever they’re looking for and get him out of here. This is no place for humans to be. This is a den for monsters who consumed his body and mind whole and left him a husk. Maybe this Barnes guy can get out of here in time. He strains to pick out words from the voices around him, but all he hears is garbled tones and urgent yelling.

He isn’t sure how long it’s been since he’s last been awake, his mind so used to rolling in and out of consciousness that it can hardly discern the difference anymore. It must have been a while since the German voice doped him up with something—he feels clearer, like he’s finally able to see a little past the gauzy curtain that’s separated him from the rest of reality. He’s aware of someone leaning over him, dressed in starched whites that match the sheets that are over him. Sheets. Those are new. He can hear better as well, voices distinguishing into separate entities and forming into words. English, he thinks, but spoken the wrong way. The place smells the same, sharp antisceptic burning his nostrils and making him want to gag. Things still hurt, but less now; the feeling of emptiness, though, is still around. He’s missing something. Something.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he’s awake.” He hears someone say, a blurry face leaning over him so close that he goes cross-eyed trying to make out features. A flurry of activity explodes around him, people pressing hands against his forehead and adjusting what must be his blankets and pillows around him. His tongue feels heavy and cottony, like he’s been drinking too much. He can’t even muster the energy to say something before a wide-eyed doctor is peering down at him, gripping a stethoscope like it’s a lifeline.

“Sergeant Barnes?” He asks in lilted English, making Bucky squint in confusion. “Sergeant Barnes, you’re in London. Do you remember anything?”

Bucky realizes that the doctor is addressing _him,_ , pieces of his identity slowly coming back to him. But still, not much is coming to his brain other than the dull throbbing ache in his left shoulder. He shakes his head, a small gesture that he despises immediately for how much it takes out of him.

“Do you know who you are?”

Bucky pauses, his brain struggling to swim up to the surface and fill in the missing details.

“James Barnes.” He rasps, his voice wrecked and raw. “32557038.” He does not know, does not understand, but he knows this much.

“And what year is it, Sergeant?”

“1943.” He gratefully accepts as a nurse tips a cup of water to his lips and misses the way the doctor’s eyebrows pinch together in pity.

“We’re going to let you rest for a bit longer, Sergeant. Don’t worry, you’re being looked after by some of the best doctors in the Allied Forces.” The doctor says, nodding to a nurse as she slides a needle into his arm. Bucky doesn’t even have time to flinch back before he’s out, tumbling down the familiar darkness of unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

He startles a nurse half to death when he wakes up, jerking out of sleep and a nightmare with sudden movements and a gasp like he’s been drowning.

“You’re not supposed to be awake for several hours, Mr. Barnes.” The nurse is still white as a sheet, clutching her hand over her heart and eyeing him warily. He vaguely wonders if she’s going to be alright. “We gave you quite a bit of morphine. Are you in any pain?”

Bucky shakes his head again, not wanting to lose progress on the clarity that comes in slowly around the edges of his senses. She nods and quickly leaves to alert the doctor, who comes quickly and looks over Bucky like he can’t quite figure out what he is.

“You burn through drugs fairly quickly, Sergeant.” He notes, this time holding a clipboard and taking notes. “How are you feeling?”

Bucky blinks up at the ceiling, trying to take stock of a body that no longer feels like his own. “Better, I think.” He settles on, not knowing if the drugs are working or if his body is merely relieved for the opportunity to recover from nonstop torture.

“That’s good. Sergeant, I must inform you that you were just recently rescued from a Nazi facility deep in Austria. Do you remember anything?”

Again, another shake of the head. “I think we were in Italy. I was sick, and they took me.” He swallows hard, wishing that nurse from earlier would come back with some more water.

More notes scribbled. “You were taken as a Prisoner of War on October 1st, 1942 by Nazi soldiers just near Azzano, Italy and taken to a weapons facility in Austria. You were presumed Killed in Action a month later due to reports from escaped soldiers inside the facility. Several days ago, the Allies pushed back enemy lines in Austria and stormed the weapons facility, finding almost 100 soldiers alive and being forced to work or subject to medical experimentation. We believe that you were one of the test subjects for medical experimentation and have been for around five months, according to your fellow soldiers’ testimonies. It seems you have suffered some memory loss, several broken bones, muscular tears, and…” He pauses, looking up from his clipboard. “The complete amputation of the left arm.”

Bucky’s mind lags behind, still trying to follow this man’s story. He vaguely understands the story to be his, can recall hazy memories of the facility before he was dragged off so they could inject pure fire into his veins and cut him apart every which way. He remembers the whine of a saw, the sickening crunch of bone. A loss, endless screaming. The disappointed click of a tongue and German chastising. The horrific realization again and again that it was _gone_. Needles, every time he remembered. Fire, every time. To stop him from screaming. To let the Germans sleep.

He doesn’t react, just continues to stare up at the ceiling as he tries to move his arms. He can move the right one, his hand tightening into a fist as he feels the flex and burn of the IV in the top of his hand and his arm. The left, he can _feel,_ but yet not. There is no rustling of the sheets, no weight whatsoever on his left side. But he doesn’t respond, because he doesn’t want the fire again, doesn’t want the blackness. He wants to _feel_.

He does not feel.

“Sergeant Barnes?” The doctor prompts, peering over at him. “We understand that there is a lot of associated trauma from the loss of a limb. We have chaplains on hand should you need, and we can begin speaking of your options for recovery and discharge once you are ready.”

Bucky does not respond.

The doctor eventually leaves after getting no response for several minutes, letting him know that the nurses will give him however much morphine he requires while he is here.

Bucky remembers that he likes to play the piano.

A tear rolls down his cheek and disappears into the bandages on his face.

 

* * *

 

He recovers quickly. Too quickly, the doctors say as they buzz around him and marvel at the way his bruises fade. He has a sinking suspicion that it has something to do with whatever they stuck him with again and again in that damn room, but keeps it quiet from the doctors. Better to not look a gift horse in the mouth and be dissected once again by his own country just to see how he works and what they did. He doesn’t talk about the torture much, lets his broken body and wild eyes speak for him. They let him know that they’ve only been able to keep a few of the Nazis in the facility alive since capture, most of them biting down into cyanide capsules hidden in their teeth until the Allies wised up. They’ll get them to talk, they assure Bucky. They’ll bring whoever did this to justice. Bucky doesn’t ever respond, just stares and stares and stares into blankness, memorizing the nothingness of the plaster ceiling above him and trying to remember.

His memory comes back in slow waves, his brain finally able to focus on something that isn’t fiery bolts of pain. He nearly rips his IVs out when he wakes up the third morning in London and remembers Steve is still in New York, finally putting a name to the face that visited him often during the torture. They reassure him that they have contacted his family to let them know and Bucky just has to trust that Becca found Steve. His stomach twists at the thought that they all thought he was dead, hating himself for making his mother worry and his sister cry. And Steve. _Steve_ , who hadn’t written him when he was deployed and maybe still hated him for what he did. Even death didn’t excuse a dozen years of lies. Bedrest meant that he had more time than ever to think about the consequences of his actions, Steve’s betrayed anger burning a negative into his mind that Bucky saw every time he had closed his eyes.

But Steve was safe, even if he did hate Bucky for what he had done. Steve wasn’t overseas with an arm missing and scars criss-crossing his entire body. Steve didn’t wake up thrashing and screaming from nightmares of someone cutting his tendons like they were puppet strings. Steve was safe. If nothing else in the fucking world went right, at least he was safe.

He began to learn how to use utensils with his right hand.

 

* * *

 

_October, 1943_

Howard scrubs his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes until he sees stars. He was so fucking _sure_ Rebirth would work—the science was perfect. Whatever human element Erskine kept going on about, however, was not. The government had shut them down, irritated with their “wasteful” spend of money when the war effort needed results. He had reopened Stark Industries to restart weapons manufacturing and was still vital to the war effort, but he was still frustrated with the failure of it all. Rebirth was supposed to be _it_ —his Newton moment that would leave him immortalized in the halls of history. It would have made firing hundreds of people during the start of the war worth it, would have made leaving _Bucky_ susceptible to the draft worth it. It would have been a huge step towards ending the war, perhaps. Something good, finally, that he would have put into the world.

The SSR was largely defunct now, running off of Howard’s other hare-brained schemes that were a little less human-testing heavy but still kept some funding coming through the pipeline. At least they had more contact with the outside world, working in a proper office instead of the hidden basements of New York establishments.

A knock at his door brings him out of his own head, tossing his pencil down as he stops glaring at his blueprints.

“Come on in.” He calls, brightening when he sees his visitor. “Hey, Pegs. Wanna grab dinner after this? I know a great place in Winnipeg I can fly us t–”

“You’ve received a telegram.” She interrupts him, all clipped London syllables. “I was told to tell you it’s urgent.” Her heels click against the linoleum floor as she hands him the envelope.

He lifts an eyebrow, running his thumb underneath the flap. “What, the Secretary got his knickers in a knot over Midnight Oil not being ready yet?”

“No, it was from a Rebecca Barnes.”

The color drains from Howard’s face, his heart sticking in his throat. Becca wouldn’t send him a telegram if it wasn’t serious—she wouldn’t have even known where to reach him directly unless she went through several channels. Peggy immediately sees the shift in his demeanor, backing out the door and shutting it with a gentle click.

He feels nauseous as he opens the telegram, unfolding the yellow piece of paper.

`James reported K.I.A. Meet me at the house ASAP.`

He feels as though the floor has dropped out beneath him, leaving him in free-fall. It’s the three words he never wanted to hear, the ones he’s been ignoring the nightmares and creeping anxiety about since Bucky was enlisted. He was supposed to win the war before Bucky even had a chance to see the front lines, let alone be hurt or killed. He was supposed to save the whole damn Allied army by sending a marching band of wicked-strong super soldiers that would leave Hitler shaking in his fucking boots. They were supposed to win. Bucky was supposed to come home.

Bucky was not coming home.

The realization of it makes him crumple in half with grief, his hand coming down hard on the top of his desk as he just barely resists the urge to scream. Bucky had told him to win the war soon so that he could come home. _God knows I don’t belong out there,_ he had said in his last letter. Howard had failed—failed Bucky, failed the SSR, failed the whole damn Allied forces. Had failed himself. He isn’t sure if it’s the shock or the tears that blur his vision as he tries to stand, falling back into his leather chair. He blindly gropes for the extra bottle of bourbon he keeps in his desk, yanking the drawer open with too much force and slamming the bottle and glass down. His hands shake too badly, most of the bourbon sloshing over the top of the desk. The first sob rips its way out of his body as he hurls the glass against the wall in frustration, the shattered glass scattering across the floor.

The next morning, once he’s emerged from his office puffy-eyed and reeking of alcohol, he dials Oppenheimer’s personal line, not forgetting the offer the man extended to him months ago.

“I’m in.”

He was going to make those fucking Krauts pay.

 

* * *

 

_March, 1944_

The second telegram he receives from Becca is much like the first—far too short, and with instructions to meet her somewhere in the city.

`James was found alive. Meet at Barbetta’s tomorrow at noon.`

It’s the first thing he receives that isn’t directly related to work, the first time he’s really had a reason to take a breath from drowning himself with work. It was the only way to keep going—if he stopped, he was sure he would suffocate under the gravity of his grief and guilt. Peggy and Phillips hardly recognized him, mean and bitter and far too drunk far too often. He knew the burn of whiskey, the migraine from quite literally trying to split atoms, and the weight of exhaustion that pressed dark circles underneath his eyes and left him with a sickly pallor.

But now this—Bucky, alive. Impossible, against all odds, but he was always one to beat the odds. Bucky, alive.

He had almost forgotten what hope felt like.

 

* * *

 

Howard feels as though he’s going to vibrate out of the sticky vinyl booth, his knee bouncing far too quickly and visibly for this kind of company. He could give less of a shit—he could buy out the whole damn place in seconds if they really made a fuss about it. He couldn’t sleep—no longer the workaholic exhaustion he had pushed himself to for the past few months to stave off reality, but now the nervous, anxious energy of the disbelieving. Becca wouldn’t be pulling his chain like this, but he also couldn’t believe that he was alive. Who had fed the Allies bad information and how the hell could they have let something like that slide? Howard would have flown one of his planes to Austria himself if there was a chance he was still alive. Another breath, another wave of crippling guilt. He should have gone after him. He should have gone after him. He should have gone after–

“Howard.” Becca sweeps into the booth across from him, her manicured nails snapping in front of his face. “ _Howard_.” He blinks, not knowing whether he should scoop her up into a crushing hug or burst into tears.

“What happened.” He says flatly instead, almost vibrating out of his seat. “Becca, what _happened_.”

She shakes her head, not meeting his eyes. “We still aren’t sure. They stormed the place and…well, over half of them were still alive. It was a prisoner camp of sorts—weapons manufacturing, mostly. Father won’t tell me everything for some forsaken reason.” She wraps her arms around herself, looking quite out of place in her own discomfort. “But he’s alive, Howard.”

“They’re not sending him back out there, aren’t they?” He flattens his palms against the tabletop, fighting the spark of rage that ignites behind his breastbone. He was already so close to giving the Secretary General a piece of his mind for allowing this shit to happen, and if he found out that they were keeping Bucky in service he would stop producing all those goddamn weapons.

“No, no. He’s in London…recovering. He should be home in just over a month. Honorable discharge.” She eyes him warily, taking his rumpled state in fully for the first time. “Have you been sleeping?

Howard waves his hand dismissively, ignoring the urge to yawn. “Sure—some. You said he’s recovering? What did they do to him?” Again, the fire, licking its way up his spine.

Becca drops her eyes to the table, swallowing hard. “I’m not entirely sure yet. He…his arm was amputated when they found him. We’re not sure why or the extent of his injuries past that.”

Howard stills completely, the eerie calm before the storm. “He what?”

Becca looks pained, her voice rough and quiet. “God, Howard, please don’t make me say it again. His arm—his left arm is gone. I don’t know more than that.”

His hands ball into fists before he can realize it, every fiber of his body screaming at him. Before Becca can say another word, he’s pushing himself roughly out of the booth and grabbing his jacket from the hook.

“I have calls to make.” He says shortly before stopping, turning back to her and trying again, softer this time, “Thank you, Becks. Wire me when you know more? Or when he’s coming home? I’ve gotta…I can fix this.”

Becca only looks half-surprised, by now used to Howard’s outbursts of energy, like he couldn’t keep it all in and needed to move before the ideas escaped his head. She just wasn’t used to him looking so… _angry_. She nods once, wondering why she bothered trying to get him to eat anything. She sighs, watches him leave, and picks up her menu.

 

* * *

 

“Howard, I don’t–”

“Peggy, please. Just get me whatever info you can from that damn hospital in London. And tell Phillips I’m taking the month off. Jarvis is in charge.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, his free hand sketching the basics of a prosthetic out while he cradles the phone between his ear and shoulder.

“Howard, please, you can’t–”

“Pegs. Please. You have to.” It must be something in his voice, because she pauses, sighing deeply before she answers.

“...Alright. But you owe me.”

“I could kiss you.”

“Please, don’t.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky hates the stares people give him as he moves throughout the train station. He couldn’t just get a damn private jet home and has had now an entire day’s worth of people gaping at him and coming up to thank him for his sacrifice. He wants to scream. He didn’t go out there like Steve would have, guns blazing and yelling anti-Axis propaganda ‘til the cows came home. He didn’t want to be there in the first goddamn place, let alone get tinkered around with by some fucked-up scientists. He’s a man that was drafted into a war he never wanted to fight and almost died for it. Should have died for it. He’s already tired by the way people part like he’s a celebrity, no longer just because he’s James Buchanan Barnes, but because he’s a scarred war hero, the public’s constant reminder of the cost of this war. People look away. People can’t stop staring.

He needs to get out of here.

Almost as if on cue, his wonderfully brave, reckless, perfect sister comes shooting out between two groups of people, wrapping her arms around his middle and almost knocking them both off-balance with the force of it. He drops his bag, trying to wrap his arms around her before he remembers and does his best with just one. Becca squeezes tighter, saying his name over and over again like it’s a prayer, broken and disbelieving and it finally breaks him down. He buries his face into her curls, smells the familiar jasmine shampoo she’s always used, and lets himself cry. They’re both causing a scene in the middle of the train station, the two heirs to one of the most prominent families openly weeping against each other like they’re the only two people in the world. But he can’t give one single damn, because the rest of these fucking people have no idea. He made his little sister cry, broke her impeccable facade down enough to make her panic in his absence and mourn for him. She was the only one in his family that he could trust, the only one that was willing to deliver letters and telegrams without Bucky even needing to ask her because she knew him. She knew what he would have wanted. And she was always right, goddamn her, she was.

He feels a hand on his shoulder moments later—minutes or hours, he can’t say—and his mother is draping her arms over them both and hugging them together, letting herself show emotion in a rare moment that shatters Bucky all over again. He thought he had lost this for good. He thought that he would never get to see his family again, strapped down to a table in the middle of fucking Europe being used as a guinea pig for months. He almost never saw them again because he was too fucking stupid to keep his urges under control, and because his father deemed death a more fitting punishment for him than anything else. George Barnes is the last to join their little huddle, laying his hands on both his wife and son’s shoulders while keeping enough of a distance that Bucky notices. They all notice, but everyone stays silent and focuses on the fact that Bucky is _home_ and _alive_ against all the fucking odds in the world.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again. Not ever.” He hears Becca mumble against his dress uniform, most likely smearing mascara all over him. God, he has missed her.

He just gives a shaky, watery laugh that sounds more like a sob and kisses the top of her head. “Not ever.”

 

* * *

 

Coming home to his family was easy. Even with the tension between him and his father, it was falling into something he had known his whole life. There was no anxiety about seeing his family, only a deep desire to see his home again and to be held by the people who had known him since birth. It was comfortable, almost easy.

Coming home to Steve was nothing like that. It was his stomach in such anxious knots that he had to keep chewing on ginger to keep the nausea at bay. It was the way his heart beat so fast when he was on his way to the apartment that he was sure he would have a heart attack right there and then. Becca had told him about what happened when the KIA telegram came through, how he fell apart at the seams and couldn’t pull himself back together. He knew that Steve had met his family in his absence, seen the life he had tried so hard to keep from him for their entire friendship. It didn’t matter how many stories Becca told him, though; he wasn’t convinced that Steve wanted anything to do with him.

Being upset that he had died was one thing—a natural response to a traumatic event, especially when neither of them had gotten a proper goodbye. But now that Bucky was alive, Steve could refocus on the anger, picking right back up where they left off. He had wanted to see Bucky enough that he all but demanded Becca send him by the day he got back, but that didn’t mean that they were going to stay friends. Steve could easily tell him that he was glad Bucky was alive, but that they couldn’t continue this anymore. Or even worse, Steve would only stick around out of pity, some misplaced sense of responsibility he always carried around on his shoulders like a yoke. He didn’t want to be pitied. He didn’t want to be looked at like something that was broken, no matter how true that was. He just wanted…

He didn’t know what he wanted anymore.

He realized several months and a limb or two ago that he doesn’t get to want.

So he shuts that part of his brain down and braces himself for the blows, just as he did time and time again in that goddamn fucking chair. His heart ricochets up several beats as his hand flies to grab the car door, chest heaving like he had been running a marathon.

 _Chair table lightning lightning lightning the fucking needle the fucking_ needle _and the fucking fire always the fire it hurts fuck Steve please come get me please God no_

He isn’t even aware that his car has stopped, the driver all but jumping into traffic to yank open his door in a desperate attempt to find out what was wrong with him.

“James? Sir? Please look at me—what’s the matter?” Everything sounds like it’s coming through a tunnel, or like he’s at the bottom of a lake and people are yelling at him from above the surface. He’s drowning. Is he drowning? He’d rather drown than be burned alive, from the inside out.

He isn’t sure how much time passes, his breath finally regulating enough for the spots clouding his vision to clear.

_“In ‘n out, Buck. Yeah, like that. Just keep count, like your metronome. You’ll be alright, yeah?” Howard’s bright smile, the two of them no older than nine, Bucky getting the breath punched out of him after falling from a tree. Back when things were simple, before he was a soldier and a disgrace to his family and complete disappointment to his best friend._

“ _James_.” His name brings him back, blinking at the driver as his senses are flooded with the present.

“What?” He asks dumbly, his tongue feeling heavy.

“I’ve had someone call for an ambulance. They will be here soon, just stay calm.” His driver—Louis, bless his soul—looks as white as a sheet, ready to fall over dead at the mere thought of James Barnes dying on his watch.

“No, no ambulances.” He pushes himself up, smoothing down his jacket and trying not to show how ashamed he felt. “I’m fine. Just an...episode. The doctors told me they might happen. From the...incident.” He tiptoes around the subject more for Louis’s sake than his own, afraid the man might really keel over if he is too explicit.

“But sir, I insist–”

“Brooklyn. Now.” He grits his teeth, pushing himself back up into a sitting position and trying his best to look as authoritative as possible.

They drive on to Brooklyn.

Bucky doesn’t think he’s been so nervous in his life—not when his father found out he had been sleeping with men, not when he was standing in formation for the first time, not even when he was strapped to the table that first time.

He steadies himself against the doorframe, trying to take deep breaths and finding that he can’t. Is this how Steve feels when he’s having an asthma attack? Maybe he’s developed asthma. Maybe he’s just going entirely batty. It would explain the shrinks he’s been given, the ones with slimy hands that told him they’re going to come by “frequently” to see how he’s doing.

He knocks on the door of the apartment he used to call theirs. He hears familiar footsteps, his heart hammering in his chest as he realizes that he would recognize Steve anywhere—had recognized him, even in death.

The door creaks open, the two of them facing each other for the first time in nearly a year. A lifetime of pain and betrayal and grief lies fractured between them, broken glass that will hurt them both if they try to bridge the gap. They thought they had lost each other forever, but fate twisted their strings back together to bring them here, arms-length apart and neither able to lurch forward to close the space between them.

They’ve both changed. Steve is gaunter, from stress or not eating enough Bucky can’t tell. He thinks he might be a little taller too, his hair falling in his face more than it ever had before. Bucky knows what he looks like—his left shoulder in a sling that wraps around his body, his body all edges now from lack of movement and nutrition. He’s so hungry lately, like he can’t get enough food in him to keep up with his metabolism. The muscle hasn’t gone away, but he still looks like someone who has been kept in a dark room for far too long. He is different. Steve is different. But has that much changed?

A beat.

Another.

Another.

Bucky thinks that perhaps enough _has_ changed, that the two of them are now so cracked and jagged that they no longer fit together like they used to anymore.

Another beat. No one moves.

Another.

Bucky takes a hesitant step into the apartment, shutting the door behind him. Steve steps closer, looking at Bucky like he’s seeing a ghost. Maybe he is.

Bucky doesn’t breathe. Steve lifts a hand, fingers stained with paint, towards his face. Bucky tears up at the mere familiarity of it—simple and as comforting as a safety blanket. Steve’s hand shakes as he rests it against Bucky’s cheek, forcing himself not to jump at the bolt of electricity that runs down his arm at the contact. That’s all he needs—a sign that he’s real and here and not just haunting Steve—and he launches himself into Bucky’s torso, wrapping his arms around his neck and letting out a strangled sob.

Bucky feels fire everywhere Steve touches him—not the fire that burned through his veins, but a warm glow that dances along his skin and makes him feel alive for the first goddamn time since they pulled him out of that hellhole. He gasps like he’s just resurfaced from drowning, holding Steve as close to him as he can with just one arm, shaking against him and wanting nothing more than to stay like this for the rest of his goddamn lucky, cursed life.

Steve bunches his hands in the back of Bucky’s shirt, mumbling nonsense into his chest as he tries to speak through the tears. “I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry Buck, I didn’t mean to–”

“Steve.”

“I was so fucking scared and alone but I was–”

“Steve, stop.”

“No, Bucky, you don’t understand, I l–” Steve tries again, the confession on the tip of his tongue.

“ _Stevie_.” Bucky cuts him off, taking a shuddering deep breath. “I don’t want to hear it. I just want to hold you.” His voice breaks off at the end and Steve shuts up immediately, pulling Bucky closer until he can’t piece together where he ends and Bucky begins.

 

* * *

 

They barely speak that night, pulling apart only to take up their positions on their old bed, curled against each other like when they were kids. Steve doesn’t ask what happened, just watches the rise and fall of Bucky’s chest as he breathes and reminds himself over and over again: _he is safe_. He doesn’t know where they stand. He doesn’t know what happened, or if Bucky read the letters before he was taken. He knows they need to talk things out. Later. Tomorrow. Next week. He doesn’t care, because Bucky came back from the dead and it’s taking all in him not to press their lips together until Bucky understands just how fucking _much_ Steve loves him. He needs him to understand just how much a piece of him died the day he heard the news from Becca, and how scared he is that he’ll blink and Bucky will be gone.

But Bucky was an impossibility—his sexuality, his family, the way his eyes stared off into space when he thought Steve wasn’t paying attention. If he didn’t know by now from the letters, Steve couldn’t tell him. The last thing Bucky needed was more stress, and Steve throwing a wrench the size of Manhattan into their already-tenuous relationship would do nothing but drive them further apart. Steve had Bucky back. That would be enough. That would have to be enough.

Bucky doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t want to think about what happened or how Steve must have felt when he heard the news. He doesn’t want to think about how Steve allowing him to stay could be a pity move borne out of temporary relief and guilt. He doesn’t want to think about their fight, about what it means, about the possibility of Steve not wanting anything to do with him in a few weeks’ time. He doesn’t want to think about recovery, or the way he lays on his left side to look at Steve, what’s left of his shoulder digging into the mattress. He needs Steve. He needs him to ground him, to prove to Bucky that the nightmare is over and he’s really home, to forgive him for being the worst friend for so long. He wants and he needs and it’s all he can do to keep from reaching out and pulling Steve to him. But none of that would be fair, to use Steve as a flotation device when he feels like he’s drowning and to find recovery in someone that had led a life without for almost a year now. He knows Steve isn’t a magic pill that will erase everything bad that’s happened to him, but it doesn’t stop him from _wanting_.

So the two of them ache and want in silence on opposite sides of their old bed, holding eye contact with an intimacy that they won’t name for fear of rejection.

And they want and they want and they want.


	13. spring, 1944-fall 1944

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for being so patient!!

In some unspoken agreement, Bucky does not move back into the apartment. Steve doesn’t ask, just opens the door every time Bucky knocks even though they both know he still has a key. The apartment still feels empty, Steve not quite yet filling up the vacant space that Bucky left behind a year ago, but it feels more whole when Bucky himself is there. If Steve squints and tilts his head just so, he can almost pretend that it’s just like it was before Bucky was marked by war and before Steve found out that their relationship had been built on lies. He feels guilty for wanting the past back, but he hates the way they dance around each other now like they’ve forgotten the steps. There’s no one alive that knows Steve better than Bucky, but they act almost like strangers around each other now. There is no more casual contact, no easy banter, no stepping around each other in a synchronized rhythm that had become as natural as breathing.

They didn’t know where they stood with each other. Steve was too afraid to ask, wary of pushing Bucky past his limits too soon. Bucky didn’t want to push Steve away when he needed him the absolute most, needing to cling to him like a life preserver but so terrified that Steve would think it’s too much. He knew he had no right to need Steve, not after everything he had done. He barely had the right to see him after all this—he needed to be content with what he got. Still, it didn’t stop him from feeling like his heart was trying to break out of his chest every time he was around Steve, his heart and body and mind craving something that was familiar, that knew him, that was _home_.

Still, they don’t talk. Instead, they spend their time together talking about the little things—the weather, how Bucky is feeling (it’s fine, it’s always _fine_ ), or how the Dodgers are doing. Steve draws by the light of the window, same as ever, but he hasn’t drawn a single portrait of Bucky since he got home, too afraid of making Bucky uncomfortable. It’s stilted, it’s awkward, but neither of them know how to push past the barrier that’s gone up between them since Bucky left. They both despise it in silence, all-too aware of the fact that Bucky has cheated death and they should be celebrating, clinging to each other closer than ever before. But they don’t, and so they suffer in silence from opposite sides of the room, all longing glances and worrying lips between teeth.

Bucky hates living at home. He is not used to the constant attention, particularly after being stripped down in the military and then being held for months without any sort of special treatment. He feels suffocated by the constant eyes on him, the butlers that ask him if he needs anything sixteen times an hour, his mother looking at him like he’ll go MIA again. His father studiously avoids him, alternating between looking ashamed for the first time in his life, or gruff, as though Bucky decided to get captured by the damn Nazis. The threat still hangs low between them, thick smoke that chokes Bucky more and more every day until it’s nearly all he can think about. He can barely make it through the night without a screaming fit, let alone start thinking about starting a life with a woman he can never love.

And then there’s the problem of the arm.

No one in their right mind would turn down a marriage proposal from a Barnes, amputee or not, but it certainly doesn’t lend him any charm. He was still unbalanced, stumbling into walls and nearly pitching himself down the stairs a few times to his never-ending frustration. He hated the way everyone looked at him with pity, like losing the damn arm was somehow worse than escaping the hell he had gone through. Howard had wired a telegram to him shortly after he got back, letting him know that he was working on a prosthetic for him, but Bucky knew it wouldn’t ever be the same. Not like any other part of his life would, but it was easier to pretend that everything was fine when he wasn’t visibly scarred by war. Everything was harder to do now—dressing, eating, writing, _anything_. He was still learning how to use his right hand for things, his non-dominant hand clumsy and awkward as he tried to do simple tasks that were so damn easy before. Playing music was out of the question, something that nearly killed him as he lost one of his oldest forms of stress-relief. Instead he sat at his piano, playing the treble clef of songs and feeling as empty as the song.

He’s escaped to Steve’s apartment for the day, his father’s hovering too much for him to take without spiraling into someplace not even he could find himself. It’s nearing July now, the windows thrown open to let the breeze in as Steve sits sideways in the ratty old armchair they found on the street. The radio is on as he sketches away, the faint outline of two people dancing visible to Bucky from the other side of the room. And despite how estranged they feel from each other, Bucky is still hit with another wave of affection, falling in love with Steve all over again as he hums along to the radio and scrunches his nose up in concentration. He needs him, Bucky realizes not for the first time. He needs him as much as he needs to breathe and living at home, where everyone looks at him like he’s something broken, isn’t going to help him any. Steve never looks at him like he’s broken. He never has.

“Can I move back in?” Bucky blurts out before he can even think through what he’s saying, causing Steve to jump a little with the suddenness of it. He recovers quickly, flipping the cover back onto his sketchbook and readjusting himself in the armchair to look at Bucky.

“Bucky, you’re still paying the rent.” Steve replies carefully, gently. He tries not to let his face betray the wild way his heart is hammering out of his chest with hope and longing.

They both know Bucky could buy the whole building with a wave of his hand, but Bucky wants Steve to want him back. He wants to work this out, to dissolve the tension between them and fall back into something that feels like their old selves. He knows he fucked up— _God_ he knows he fucked up. But he wants the chance to make it better— _needs_ to try and win Steve back or he thinks he’ll truly go mad.

“It’s your place, Steve.” He insists, every inch of him focused on staying still and present in the conversation.

Steve worries his bottom lip, setting the sketchbook slowly down on the end table. “Bucky…”

And here it comes. Bucky braces himself for the rejection, the inevitable proof that Steve doesn’t really want him around anymore. He’s alone, he’s entirely alone now, he’s–

“I want to stay.” Steve finishes, a little flush to his cheeks for reasons Bucky can’t even begin to understand. “This is just as much your place as it is mine, but I don’t wanna move out into your other place in Brooklyn, or anywhere else. This is home.”

Bucky all but melts with relief, wanting to kiss the defiant tilt of Steve’s chin til he’s blue in the face. God, he’s so in love with this boy. “Far be it from me to make you part with ol’ reliable over there.” He tips his head towards the radiator that broke the first winter they spent here, forcing them together in an intimacy Bucky still craved for.

Steve’s lips split into a grin, hopeful as the tension between them starts to bleed away. Bucky, making jokes. Bucky, wanting to move back. Bucky, _home_ at last.

“Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky slowly starts moving in, bit by bit reclaiming his side of the closet and drawers that have remained empty since he deployed. It’s stifling hot all the time in the apartment and the window still sticks when he tries to open it, but everything smells like Steve—acrylic paint and charcoal and lavender. He wants to give him the world, give him a mansion of his own, give him enough money and art supplies that he only ever needs to make art for himself for the rest of his life, take him to every beautiful place in the world that hasn’t been marred by painful memories of war. But he follows Steve’s lead and lets him decide where they live and what they buy. Few things change, Steve still insisting on shopping at the local grocery store he’s been going to since he was a kid and taking the bus when they need to go somewhere. Bucky doesn’t complain, just thankful that Steve has let him back into his life. But it isn’t perfect.

The second night that Bucky begins sleeping at their apartment again, Steve wakes to Bucky thrashing about on the other side of the bed.

“Buck?” He mumbles, his sleep-slow mind still trying to process what’s going on.

Bucky doesn’t respond, his breath hitching like he can’t quite catch it—like how Steve’s does when he’s having an asthma attack. He twists himself in the covers, sweat breaking out over his brow as he repeats “ _No._ ” over and over again between panicked breaths.

Steve bolts up in bed, his heart in his throat as he reaches for Bucky. “Buck, hey, it’s okay, you’re okay. You’re home, you’re safe.” He tries, resting a hand on his shoulder. “ _Bucky_.” He urges, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “It’s me. It’s Steve. Hey.”

Bucky snaps out of his nightmare, gasping sharply as he wakes up. Steve stares down at him, so fucking close with those big baby blues that are wide and concerned. There’s a pause between them before Steve pulls back, putting his hands back into his lap as he sinks back onto his haunches. “You were having a nightmare.” He explains lamely, forever thankful that the darkness hides the way his cheeks color.

“I’m sorry.” Is all Bucky can think to say, scrubbing at his face with a hand in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I-”

“Bucky, it’s okay.” Steve cuts him off, reaching over to touch his arm. “Nothin’ to apologize for. Lemme go get you a glass of water.” He’s out of bed and padding towards the kitchen before Bucky can reply, his face burning with shame and the closeness of Steve. The nightmare still lingers in his bones, phantom pain searing through his shoulder and the places where he should have scars but doesn’t. Steve’s hand in his hair didn’t make that go away, but it did calm his heartbeat some, his body instinctively reacting to something he’s called home for so long.

He accepts the glass of water gratefully from Steve when he comes back and the two of them lapse into silence once more, drifting off to sleep before either can muster up the courage to say something.

Bucky does not stop having nightmares. But Steve also does not stop carding his fingers through his hair every time he does, whispering that everything is okay and that he’s there so softly that Bucky maybe wouldn’t have been able to hear him, if whatever they gave him in that damned lab didn’t make all of his senses feel like they were on a live wire. Other than Steve’s whispered promises, though, they don’t speak—Bucky shaking against him until the adrenaline crash hits him and he falls asleep, head in Steve’s lap. They never talk about it in the morning, despite how desperately Bucky wants to thank him. He does other little things for Steve instead, like getting groceries delivered to their house when Steve isn’t home and trying his best to make coffee in the morning when he’s down a hand. He wants to sob with the inadequacy he feels, unable to stop himself from scaring Steve like that but also unable to pry himself away from Steve long enough to seclude himself when the nightmares come. He is selfish, he knows, but he cannot help himself from needing.

 

* * *

 

After the tenth minute of trying to button his shirt with one hand, Steve gets up from his place on the couch to run interference.

“Steve, you don’t have to–”

“Bucky. It’s okay, I don’t mind.” He says, tugging the two sides of Bucky’s shirt so they are even before deftly buttoning it up from the bottom. He avoids Bucky’s eyes as he goes, forcing himself to think about anything else other than how close his hands are to Bucky’s chest at the moment. Bucky reddens again, making a noise in the back of his throat that Steve has come to recognize as Bucky about to protest—really, he’s become more like Steve in the past few weeks.

“No.” He cuts in before Bucky can start protesting. He looks up at him and holds eye contact, making sure Bucky hears this. “You are not helpless, no. But how many times have you had to help me when I was sick or too loaded to stand?” He cocks an eyebrow, nudging the last button through the hole and letting his hands drop. “I know what it feels like to have everyone think you’re about to break. But I also learned how to tell the difference between people who are helping and people who are trying to do things for you out of pity.” He forces himself to hold Bucky’s gaze, his voice quiet but firm. “I let you in all those times. Let me return the favor sometime, yeah?”

Bucky just stares at Steve, half-distracted by the way his eyelashes fan out at this angle. His throat tightens, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from doing something ridiculous, like tear up. “I distinctly remember you screaming ‘ _Fuck you Barnes, I’m a grown ass man that can take off his own damn shirt_ ’ last time I had to help you out.” He lets himself smile a little, hoping Steve will let him deflect the situation with humor. “You were, I believe, stuck with your shirt around your neck at the time and entirely unable to see.”

Steve just juts his chin out, trying his best not to grin. “I had it.”

“You gave yourself a black eye by running into the doorframe.”

They grin at each other and the ice continues to crack and thin, melting away into something more recognizable as distinctly Steve and Bucky, together against the world.

 

* * *

 

Becca insists on throwing Steve a birthday party this year in tandem with their annual Fourth of July party, much to his chagrin. He’s been to the Hamptons house before, but never with Bucky—they exclusively hang out in their apartment and their old Brooklyn haunts, studiously avoiding the subject of Steve coming over. It’s not as though Steve doesn’t know Bucky’s parents or about his life, but there’s still something stopping either of them from bringing it up. It’s irritated Becca to no end, tired of running interference for her brother and parents on why Bucky moved out and prefers to spend his time with some boy they didn’t even know existed before this year. And if Bucky won’t take the first step to blend his two lives, she will.

Steve feels like he’s meeting the Barnes’ for the first time as he stands outside of the giant doors, sweating in a suit that Becca picked out for him that he’s sure cost more than a years’ worth of rent. He’s absolutely positive that he’s about to make an utter fool out of himself in front of Bucky’s entire circle—he’ll probably use the wrong damn fork or something and be banned from ever breathing near a rich person again in his life. He feels a touch at his elbow, Bucky following him out of the car he had called for them.

“You’ll be okay.” Bucky assures him gently, reading his mind like always. “It’ll just be for a few hours and then it’ll be over. We can even go back to the apartment tonight if you feel more comfortable with that.”

Steve doesn’t want to admit that his desire to return to the apartment has less to do with the charm of their apartment and more to do with the fact that if he stays at the Hamptons, he’ll be put up in one of the many guest rooms and won’t be able to share a bed with Bucky. So instead he nods, taking a steeling breath.

“Your sister is going to be the death of me.” He mutters out of the corner of his mouth as they walk up the grand staircase together, eyes watching them on either side. He’s not used to people actually seeing him, far too accustomed to a life of everyone’s eyes glazing over him as though he was see-through. But they see him now, walking in tandem with New York’s most eligible bachelor with a freshly-awarded Purple Heart and a pinned suit coat sleeve. Bucky refuses to wear his dress uniform, finding no honor in the pinks and greens. He doesn’t want to be thanked for his service, he wants to go back to the time before the war took almost everything from him.

“Welcome to my world.” Bucky murmurs back, leading Steve through the doors that are opened with a flourish for them both. The ballroom is alive with people already, the entire room thick with entitlement and more money than Steve had ever been around in his life. People part for Bucky like he’s Moses, his energy and reputation carving them a path to the back of the room where Becca waits, a flute of champagne dangling from her fingers.

“Took you both long enough.” She greets, her eyes sparkling with delight. “Steven, you look absolutely dashing in that suit. Doesn’t he, Jamie?”

 

Bucky is positive karma exists, because he’s being absolutely tortured right now for his past transgressions. Steve, normally dressed in clothes far too big for his frame, now cuts an impressive figure in a perfectly-tailored three-piece, jet-black Victory suit that makes his blue eyes stand out even more. It’s still Steve underneath the gelled bangs and dark red tie, his eyebrows pinched together in anxiety and worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, but the sight of Steve fitting into his other life nearly bowls him over every time he catches sight of him.

He’s pretty sure he won’t make it through the night.

“Yeah, Stevie, you cleaned up nice.” He says in lieu of pressing him up against the nearest wall and ripping the suit clean off his body.

Steve flushes under the attention, ducking his head a little bit. “I _had_ a suit that was just fine.”

She waves her free hand, her bracelets tinkling and flashing on her wrist. “That wasn’t a suit, that was a _sport coat_. We needed you all spiffy for your birthday, of course.”

Steve just rolls his eyes, trying to stay focused on his mild irritation over the attention Becca was giving him and not the overwhelming anxiety gnawing at him. The room was massive, the ceilings vaulted to the heavens and chandeliers sparkling as far as the eye could see. It was even more overwhelming with hundreds of people filling the space, their too-white teeth and too-big diamonds blinding Steve everywhere he looked. So many people, so joyful in the face of the world’s most destructive war. People were starving in work camps in Germany and Poland and there was enough money on just one politicians’ wrist to rehome the entirety of the MS St. Louis. It made him furious. It made him overwhelmed.

“Is Howard coming?” Bucky’s voice cut through Steve’s thoughts, picking up on the little hint of hope in Bucky’s words.

Becca shook her head, pursing her lips a little. “Still holed up.” Her eyes flick about the room briefly before resting a hand on Bucky’s arm, leaning in and whispering something in his ear. Steve watches as Bucky’s expression goes flat, the hints of a frown tugging at the corners of his lips. She looks almost apologetic when she pulls back before snapping back to her usual bubbly self, grinning over at Steve.

“Who’s Howard?” He asks, the name sounding familiar from his few months with Becca.

She waves a hand dismissively again, grabbing him and steering him around before he can catch Bucky’s expression.

“Oh, just Jamie’s friend. They’ve known each other since they were still in their cribs, so he’s been a pain in my side for as long as I’ve been alive too.” She says, conveniently leaving out the several years she was desperately in love with Howard. Steve’s stomach twists, a shard of jealousy sparking hot and quick through him for reasons he can’t entirely explain. Before he can figure out what the hell just happened, he’s being pulled into the crowd by Becca, Bucky silent but close behind them.

“Come, James and I can introduce you around. I do believe Duchamp is in town for the summer.”

 

* * *

 

Steve’s hands shake as he walks out onto the balcony, sucking in fresh air for the first time in hours. Bucky is close on his heels, his hand resting on his lower back in a move that’s so familiar that it makes Steve want to cry.

“Are you okay?” He asks gently, moving to look Steve in the eyes.

Steve just runs his hands through his hair, laughing softly. “Holy fucking shit. This is insane. Those _people_. I shook hands with _Picasso_.”

Bucky shrugs, looking a tad uncomfortable. “Yeah, he’s kind of an odd one. But you’re okay?”

“I don’t know. I feel like I’m dreaming.” Steve breathes, leaning against the railing of the balcony. “None of this feels real.”

“I know how that feels.” Bucky says, eyes on the horizon. They’re quiet for a few moments, comfortable silence falling between them as Steve looks out across the garden below.

“I used to come out here quite a lot during parties. I’m not the largest fan of huge gatherings.” Bucky starts, his eyes still trained on the bay. “I always wished you were here. I felt like nobody else really got me, you know? It was all a show, almost. I couldn’t just be a normal kid.”

Steve glances up at him, careful not to let any emotion show and scare Bucky from continuing. He had been so quiet lately, staring off into space and dodging Steve’s few questions. He runs his fingers along the balcony, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I can’t promise that I would have understood it any more if you had told me back then. Or that I would’ve even wanted to be here, with all this.” He waves a hand back towards the party. It’s the admission he had needed to say for months, but had barely even admitted it to himself.

If Bucky is surprised, he doesn’t let it show. “I know. God, I wanted to tell you. I didn’t want to have to choose between this and you. But…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Splitting my time seemed like a better idea than risking you never wanting to see me again.”

“But _why_?” Steve asks, watching Bucky carefully. “You have everything you could ever want here. There’s millions of people in this city that would kill to be friends with you. Why me?”

 _Because I love you, you blind son of a bitch._ His mind supplies unhelpfully.

“I don’t have everything.” Bucky replies, flat and emotionless. He shakes himself out of it, finally meeting Steve’s eyes. “The first time I ever saw you, you were trying to fight off guys that were twice your size. You didn’t care that you were going to get the shit beaten out of you—you did it because you thought it was right.”

“It was right.” Steve shoots back quickly, without thinking.

Bucky just laughs, short and soft. “Exactly. _That_. People here? They don’t have that. People do shit for money or power. Much as I hate to admit it, there isn’t a lot of morality here. You had an unshakeable moral compass and I…” He shrugs, his eyes flicking back to the water. “You were unlike anyone I had ever known. You were genuine when pretty much everything else wasn’t.”

“What about Howard?” It slips out before Steve can fully process the thought, his eyes widening in embarrassment.

Bucky just sighs, his hand imperceptibly tightening on the railing. “It’s different with him. The two of us are cut from the same cloth, so he doesn’t know what it feels like to not have everything at your fingertips. He’s a hell of a lot more genuine than the rest of them, but he’s a genius—head’s always in the clouds with trying to invent the next and best thing. He’s a lot less...black and white. The ends justify the means for him, and what’s ‘right’ is more of a vague guideline.” He sighs, running a hand over his face. “He’s the only other one that knew about you, other than Becca. He’s the one I worked for all those years.”

“So you really had a job?” Steve blinks, still trying to process everything Bucky’s saying.

Bucky frowns, looking slightly offended. “I committed. It was a lot less heavy lifting and a lot more watching Howard blow shit up, but yes, I had a job.”

“And now?”

“Making weapons for our boys in blue.” Bucky says, only a little hint of bitterness in his voice. “But right now he’s apparently making some kind of prosthetic. I haven’t seen him since he’s been back.”

Steve quiets, his mind working a million miles an hour. He still can’t fully understand why someone would shuck of all this wealth just for some genuine friendship, but his heart does fracture even further for Bucky—here was someone so desperate for something real in his life that he went to the ends of the earth for someone like him for it. Betrayal and hurt still stung deep, but bit by bit he began to relax, the spines working their way out of his heart. It didn’t change the wrongness of what Bucky had done, but neither did it hurt their chances of reconciliation.

“I’m sorry, Stevie.” Bucky breaks the silence after several minutes, his voice tight and a little wobbly. “I really never meant to hurt you. You’ve gotta believe me in that. I just wanted you to be my friend for somethin’ other than all this.” He makes a vague gesture at the property but doesn’t get to finish, Steve seizing on the opportunity and stepping into Bucky’s space, hugging him around the middle.

“You’re dumber than I thought if you ever thought I would only be your friend ‘cause you had money.” He mumbles into Bucky’s suit jacket, desperately hoping that the sudden contact won’t spook Bucky away. He relaxes as Bucky wraps his arm around Steve, resting his chin on the top of Steve’s head like he used to do when they were younger.

“It was never about you wanting me for the money. It was about you not wanting to be around me because of it.”

And as much as Steve hates to admit it, he knows he’s at least somewhat right. He’s had a year to turn it over in his mind again and again like a worry stone until he found the painful truth about himself—he wouldn’t have trusted Bucky. Well-founded mistrust, of course, as no one in their right mind would want to be friends with a street rat when they had six boats in their name. But Bucky was no ordinary boy and neither was Steve, and perhaps that’s why they had always worked together. If he had known the truth from the start, perhaps he would’ve driven Bucky away before he got to know the boy underneath the veneer, and God only knows where he would have been if that had happened. Dead, no doubt, buried in some public lot with no more than his name and a haphazard guess at his death date to mark his life.

God, he was turning morbid since Bucky left for service.

The first burst of a firework jolts both of them out of their embrace, Bucky’s hand instantly going to grip the balcony.

“Buck?” Steve asks gently, reading the tension in Bucky’s neck and shoulders instantly. “What is it? Does something hurt?”

Another firework, another full-body flinch as it pierces the quiet. People are flooding out the doors onto the balcony and lawn to watch the fireworks and though Steve doesn’t know much about this bizarre life Bucky leads, he knows that this isn’t something high society likes to see. Nothing different, nothing out of place, nothing uncomfortable.

He steels himself against the crowd and pulls Bucky along behind him, winding their way out the ballroom and into a hallway Steve’s sure he’s never been in before. Bucky is white as a sheet and shaking when he looks back, tensed as though he’s ready for something to pop out at him and scream.

“Bucky, talk to me.” He says, hands flitting around his torso as though he’s hurt. “What’s wrong? What can I do?”

“Count.” Bucky grits out, his breath coming in short gasps like how Steve’s does right before an attack.

Steve doesn’t stop to question the command, just begins counting out loud. “One, two, three…” He recites a steady beat, pressing a thumb against Bucky’s wrist to track his pulse. Nervous episodes, his mother would call them, though she never taught him how to stop them. But he can’t stand the wild fear in Bucky’s eyes, the way he retreats within himself to somewhere Steve cannot reach and therefore cannot help; it kills him inside, tears his heart to tatters with guilt for feeling this way when Bucky has far more reason to suffer.

“Start over.” Bucky gets out when Steve gets to ten and he obediently starts his counting over again, repeating sets of ten until he can feel the pulse start to slow beneath his thumb.

“Bombs.” He hisses out by way of explanation, screwing his eyes shut and tipping his head against the hallway wall. He looks exhausted. Steve wants to cry. “They sounds like bombs. Guns. Death.”

Steve thinks it’s increasingly cruel that no one had thought of this before the celebrations began—hates himself even more for not thinking of it himself. He drops Bucky’s hand before he questions why Steve hasn’t let go and stands helplessly in front of Bucky, watching the fight and energy drain from his body.

“God, Buck, I’m so sorry.” He supplies lamely, entirely at a loss of what to say. What is there to say when your best friend and guy you’d crack the earth in half like an egg to make happy is desperately, unreachably traumatized? What is there to say when the person that fills the cracks in your heart and makes them into something new is too far for you to reach because there are devils that walk the earth and chose him to atone for sins he did not commit? Steve has suffered many hardships in his life, but nothing comes close to active torture, whatever happened in Austria that’s too terrible to even name. Even to Steve.

“‘s not your fault.” Bucky says, his voice ragged and weak. “Just can’t...can we go upstairs?” He asks, rubbing a hand over his face in embarassment. “Fuck, I didn’t mean for you to see me like this.”

“You once knocked yourself clean out cold after getting stuck in your own trousers after that whole bottle of scotch.” Steve tries for a smile, nudging Bucky gently in the arm. “Nothin’ phases me anymore.”

Bucky gives him a weak smile and leads him up to his room.

It’s different being in here _with_ Bucky, his first and only other encounter with Becca shortly after he learned that Bucky had been killed. Bucky closes the heavy door and all but collapses on his bed, his hands still visibly shaking.

“I’m really sorry again–”

“Don’t apologize.” Steve cuts him off, sitting gingerly on the bed next to Bucky. The thing was bigger than two of their beds put together back at the apartment, and Steve is bowled over with another wave of confusion and gratitude for Bucky. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“It’s your birthday party.” Bucky protests weakly, swallowing hard.

“It’s an Independence Day party. I see fireworks every year—I don’t need to see any more of them.” He assures him, trying for a soft smile that Bucky returns. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I got you somethin’ though.” Bucky says, shifting focus as he looks around the room for something.

“Buck, you didn’t have to get me anything. Just inviting me was more than enough.” Steve insists, his blood pressure rising again. Now that Bucky didn’t have to hide the money, what in the world was he going to come up with now for holiday gifts?

“Stop yammering. I didn’t buy you a house or anything.” He gets off the bed, deflecting his fear in favor of humor. Steve lets him. “Though if you would let me buy you somethin’ nicer than the dump we’ve got…”

“You love it just as much as I do. You just won’t admit it.” Steve says mildly, used to this argument now and settling into the familiar rhythm of it.

“The day I admit I feel anything for that shithole other than disdain is the day I’ve truly lost it.” Bucky pulls a drawer out from his desk and produces a rectangular box, setting it in Steve’s lap.

“I wanted you to have this a long time ago, but there was no easy way of giving it to you without you raising way more questions. Plus, I didn’t know if it would hurt too much.”

Steve eyes the box warily, his eyebrows furrowed as he watches Bucky sit back on the bed next to him. “Is something going to jump out and bite me?” He deadpans, picking at the ribbon on the top. “Because I swear…”

“Nothing alive in there. You’ll understand what I mean.” Bucky looks nervous again, but in a far different way than he had during the fireworks. They’re still booming in the distance, but Bucky’s attention is laser-focused on Steve as he pulls off the blood-red ribbon and lifts the top off the box.

Inside is a dark green scrapbook, a photo of Sarah holding Steve as a baby adorning the front. It’s one of Steve’s favorite photos of her—one of the only photos he had of her. His heart catches in his throat, his heart twisting as he opens the cover. Inside are pages upon pages of photos of Sarah Rogers, vibrant and stark against the camera. Steve sucks in a breath, tears burning hot behind his eyes before he can think to stop them.

“Right after she was transferred to the sanitorium, I hired a photographer.” Bucky explained, chewing on his lip as he flexed his hand on his knee. “I was worried she wouldn’t make it. I wanted you to have as many tangible memories as you could of her. A lot of them were taken when you were sleeping, or not paying attention.” He points to a photo on the second page of Steve asleep in the corner, arms folded across his chest as Sarah watches him with a faint smile on her lips. “She had to have known what was going on, but she never confronted me or asked them to stop. She was…” He stops, momentarily overwhelmed with emotion for the woman that had loved him so readily and warmly despite his secrets. “She was really somethin’.”

Steve is shocked into silence, flipping the pages of the scrapbook slowly. His mother, vibrant and healthy-looking despite being in her hospital bed. Her in the sanitorium garden, her eyes shut and head tipped towards the sun with a small, private smile on her face. It was before she had lost all the weight off of her already-thin frame, before her cheeks were sunken in and the dark hollows beneath her eyes deepened. It was Sarah Rogers as she was in most of her life, the shining sun that kept Steve going against all odds. There are other photos of her too, wedding photos with Joseph and from when Steve was first born—lifted from the boxes that Steve had packed from his old apartment and had never touched again for fear of painful memories. Bucky had gone through them all, painstakingly preserving the old photos to create something that would last for Steve. It was a declaration of love, really—solid proof that Bucky knew him more deeply and intimately than anyone on this earth and that he wanted to show Steve that. Steve’s heart twisted with love and grief for not being able to express it, desperately needing to reach out and cup Bucky’s face between his hands and kiss him until neither of them could breathe.

Steve shuts the book before the tears mar the pages, setting the book down behind him and pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. It all comes to him too quick, the grief he’s been carefully building a wall around since his mother died, the whiplash from finding out that Bucky was dead and then not, the crippling fear and guilt he felt every time he was around Bucky and couldn’t make everything instantly better—it all comes out in a tidal wave of tears, his shoulders shaking with the effort to keep it all inside. He doesn’t have a right to cry—happy tears, perhaps, but nothing more. Bucky had gone through so much more, had been holding it all back so much better than Steve was at this moment. He needed to be strong for Bucky, not falling apart the minute someone did something nice to him.

Bucky awkwardly reaches around with his right arm to tug Steve against his side, rubbing his back as Steve turns into his neck and cries.

“I miss her too. I know.” Bucky says, his voice shaking as though he was on the verge of tears as well.

“Thank you.” Steve manages to get out as he calms down a bit, sniffing and wondering how much money it’s going to cost to get tear stains out of Bucky’s suit coat. “God, thank you.”

Bucky just squeezes his arm a little tighter around Steve and holds him, thankful to whatever universal entity that got him this far with Steve.

They weren’t perfect. They weren’t healed. But they were moving forward.

 

* * *

 

“God _dammit_.” Steve is on his feet as soon as he hears the crash from the bathroom, hovering in the doorway as Bucky swears and shakes his hand. There’s glass everywhere, the cup he was using to rinse his razor shattered at his feet and in the sink. Most of his face is still covered in shaving cream, his face pinched in frustration.

“Wait, don’t move.” Steve says, holding his hands out. He grabs a hand towel and brushes the glass away from Bucky’s feet, scooping it into the towel and making regular trips to dump it into the kitchen trash. Bucky stands there, silent and stewing in frustration and humiliation from not being able to complete a simple damn task like _shaving_ , trying his best not to let his irritation bubble over to Steve.

Steve sweeps the floor for stray shards carefully before stepping into the tiny bathroom with Bucky, rinsing the rest of the glass down the sink and offering a hand out.

“Lemme see your hand. Are you okay?” He asks gently, turning Bucky’s palm over when he rests it in Steve’s own and ignoring the way his fingers spark with electricity at the contact. His hand is smeared a little with blood where it cut him, but the cuts seem shallow and have already stopped bleeding.

“Lucky break.” Steve smiles up at Bucky, desperate to see something other than the clouded-over expression he’s got right now. “No stitches. Here, wash up. I’ll grab a chair.”

“For what?”

“I’m gonna help.” Steve disappears out the bathroom and returns with a chair from their makeshift dining room, trying to squeeze it into their tiny bathroom.

Bucky just stares at him, his hand in a fist to hide how quickly the cut was healing. “Steve, what are you doing.”

“Sit.” Steve says instead, patting the seat of the chair. “I can finish up. It’s not a big deal.”

They both know it is. Bucky’s self-sufficiency had been a point of contention with his mental state ever since he returned, partially moving back in with Steve to have fewer people running interference on him for virtually everything. He just wanted to get back to normal life, but everything was harder now. It was humiliating and Steve could see how much it affected Bucky—could read the frustration and mortification clear as day on his face. Helping him outright would only make things worse, so Steve worked behind the scenes, moving furniture slightly to make wider paths for when Bucky inevitably leaned right without his left arm. He helped out more with cooking, lifting pots and pans off the stove without Bucky directing him under the guise of “finally learning how to make somethin’ that won’t kill you, Buck”. It wasn’t much, it wasn’t enough, but it was something. It was rare that Bucky would let him help outright—buttoning his shirt was a one-off thing (much to Steve’s dismay), Bucky wearing things with fewer bells and whistles to accommodate.

But, he figures if he can play it off casually enough, he might be able to do this too for Bucky.

Bucky eyes him warily, the set to his jaw a tell-tale sign that he was about to argue. Steve knew that if he was in Bucky’s position, he would have probably already tried to cuff him upside the head and insisted he could do it himself. But thank God, Bucky was far less stubborn and prideful, at least when it came to Steve. After a minute’s hesitation, he sits in the chair, scooting it as far as he can back against the wall. Steve crowds into his personal space, the two of them nearly touching as Steve twists and picks up the straight razor from the sink, gingerly rinsing it off before turning back to Bucky.

“No moving.” Steve says, quieter now that the closeness of them settles over him. It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s just Bucky. It’s just touching Bucky’s jaw and neck, hot underneath his fingers—he always ran so hot these days. He wonders, not for the last time, what they did to him. Bucky swallows and Steve watches the bob of his Adam’s apple, ignoring the way his mouth goes dry. They don’t speak, barely breathe as Steve leans into his space and presses his fingertips against Bucky’s jaw, pulling the skin taut and dragging the razor down at a slight angle. It’s slow and intimate, Steve needing to lean in close enough for his breath to tickle Bucky’s cheek so that he can see with his poor eyesight. Bucky stares straight ahead, still as a statue, desperately wishing his heartbeat would slow down.

Steve straightens and rinses the razor off in the sink, methodically removing the stubble around Bucky’s jaw and neck as he scrapes the shaving cream away bit by bit. He has a laser focus, not letting him get distracted by the scent of Bucky’s cologne, faint from yesterday on his throat, or the way his breath ghosts over Steve’s neck and raises goosebumps across his entire body. Though he sleeps next to Bucky every night, it’s the closest he’s felt to him since he got home.

At some point Bucky lets his eyes close, trusting Steve to be so close to him with something that could so easily slice into him—it was Steve. He wouldn’t hurt him, not in a million years. He wasn’t the German scientists and this wasn’t a scalpel. It didn’t lessen the way his heart hammered in chest, but he preferred to think of that as a side-effect of Steve being so close to him. When Steve finishes, he opens his eyes, staring into a thin ring of sea-blue around blown pupils.

“Done?” He asks softly, almost afraid to break the silence.

Steve starts to nod but stops, his thumb sweeping across Bucky’s bottom lip in a slow motion that sends electricity shooting straight through Bucky like that one time he touched a live wire in Howard’s shop. He barely restrains himself from leaning into the touch, kissing the pad of Steve’s thumb and taking his fingers into his mouth one by one. Steve pulls his hand back to show Bucky, a spot of shaving cream on his thumb.

“Missed a spot.” Steve breathes, barely more than a whisper. There’s a charged pause between them before Steve speaks again. “Bucky?”

“Yeah?” Bucky whispers, his voice hoarse.

Steve looks like he’s about to say something significant, his eyes darting between Bucky’s as he weighs the decision in his mind. He could tell him right now, ask him about the letters, tell him that he loves Bucky more than he loves breathing and can’t bear to live without him in this life or the next. And maybe, _God_ , just maybe, Bucky could say it back. It’s right there, on the tip of his tongue, he can almost–

“I’m really glad you’re back.” Steve stammers, his cheeks coloring as he pulls back and turns, rinsing his hand off.

Bucky blows out the breath he had been holding since Steve had first leaned into his space, chastising himself for being so stupid.

“I’m glad too, pal.”

 

* * *

 

It’s late August, muggy and hot in New York as they ride to Manhattan in a private car, much to Steve’s consternation. Bucky had invited Steve along to get his prosthetic attached, but on the condition that they got to take a car. There was no telling how long it would take and he wasn’t ever thrilled about going on public transit now, the blatant staring making him feel as though his collar was constricting his throat and the train car was shrinking on him. But Steve could deal with it, especially since Bucky had extended the invitation without any prompting. Bucky wanted him there at a pivotal moment in his life, and Steve would rather eat his hat than miss the opportunity to be tangibly there for Bucky.

Their car is waved through a series of guarded gates, opening up to an inconspicuous house and attached garage, the door wide open. At the sound of tires on the gravel, a man emerges from the garage, tinted goggles pushed up onto his forehead as he grins and waves them over. Bucky all but jumps out of the car, opening the door and getting out before the driver stops, causing the man to nearly have a heart attack. Steve stays in the car, watching the two of them embrace like old friends. Howard Stark, Bucky’s best friend before Steve. Or perhaps he still is, despite Steve only hearing about him through Becca. He pushes down the mounting jealousy, sharp and hot like fire.

He steps out of the car as the two of them break apart, Howard looking positively wrecked. Bucky holds up a hand to stop whatever he’s saying, hearing Steve come up behind him.

“It wasn’t your fault.” He finishes with a finality that Steve knows from years of being around Bucky that means there isn’t any more room for argument. He turns, ushering Steve forward.

“Steve, Howard Stark. Howard, Steve Rogers.” He introduces them and Howard sticks out a hand, his face smoothing into something far more neutral.

“Pleasure. I’ve heard lots about you.” Howard says with a wink that feels too forced, shaking Steve’s hand a bit too forcibly.

“Come on in. Buck, the chair’s all yours whenever you’re ready. Steve, you can sit wherever.” He gestures vaguely at the garage, already walking steps ahead of them. It was exhausting to keep up with him, his energy bouncing all over the place despite the dark circles under his eyes. But he had called Bucky _Buck_ , even though he had only heard everyone else from his life refer to him as James. Again, that acrid pulse that settled low in his stomach and made him want to squirm with it.

He follows Bucky into the garage, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of wires and tools and things he had never seen before in his life. Bucky turns in a slow circle around the garage, looking nostalgic. Steve squeezes his arm, trying for a smile. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” He won’t meet Steve’s eyes, nervously running a hand through his hair. Whatever walls had come down between them were up again, Bucky retreating within himself as he struggled to cope with this new reality.

Howard comes back with cocktails, handing something lemony and sweet to Steve before setting the tray down near Bucky. “Ready?”

Bucky gives him a short nod and he sits int he chair, his entire posture rigid.

“Relax. Like I told you, you won’t be able to feel any pain—a few jolts here and there and some pressure once it’s actually attached, but nothing painful.” He stresses, waving towards his shirt. “Alright, shirt off. I’ll get you prepped.”

Steve sits down hard in a metal folding chair in the corner, sucking down whatever frozen concoction Howard had handed him and trying not to blush like a madman when Bucky pulls his t-shirt off one-handed. Howard has him straddle the chair backwards so his shoulder will be exposed, running his fingers gently along the scar lines. Bucky, for once, doesn’t flinch, just continues to breathe deeply through his nose. Howard wipes an alcohol swab over the top of his shoulder, pressing a covered syringe into Bucky’s palm.

Some tension bleeds out of Bucky’s shoulders at the gesture, giving himself autonomy to slip a needle back under his skin at his own pace. He steels himself, Howard’s hand gentle and light on the center of his back as he flicks the cap off with his thumb and sinks the needle into the top of his shoulder, his heart beating a tattoo against his chest. He realizes a beat later after he’s depressed the plunger fully that Howard is counting for him to breathe along to, rubbing small circles into his back. He wants to sob with the gentleness of it, of Steve’s concerned eyes on him in the corner—he was surrounded by people that cared about him, that understood him more than anyone else in this damn world.

“Okay, we’ll give that a little bit to work. I’ll check in pretty often, but you tell me _immediately_ if anything is off.” Howard says, deadly serious for once. “We’ll stop, adjust. I don’t care if this takes 12 hours, we’ll go at your pace.”

Steve feels like as though he’s the audience to a play unfolding before his eyes, forgotten in the corner as the two of them interact. Howard’s hands are sure and gentle over Bucky’s body, like being this close to him was old hat. The easy intimacy sparks something again in him, frustratingly combustible as flames lick the inside walls of his chest and gut. He’s touched Bucky like that before, when he painted the skyline on his back. He hates that he was never the only one, hates himself even more for ever thinking that Bucky would only let him in that far. He was foolish, selfish, even now when Bucky was getting a goddamn entire new arm attached to him.

He takes another sip of his drink.

Howard works in relative silence, murmured explanations of what he’s doing next only for Bucky as Steve’s weak ears strain to hear. He tries not to burn with jealousy at the sight of them working together, focusing instead on the shiny metal arm being wired to Bucky—it looks nothing like the prosthetics he’s seen before, detailed and more realistic despite the silver. He hopes Bucky likes it. He hopes this works.

He’s pulled out of his reverie by a moan, Bucky’s back arching involuntarily with it. There’s a dead silence that fills the room afterwards, Bucky’s eyes as wide and horrified. Howard just pushes his goggles onto his forehead, a smug smirk on his face.

“Oops. Wrong wire.” He says lightly, pushing the goggles back down and resuming his work on Bucky’s shoulder. “Haven’t heard that one in a while.”

Bucky’s entire torso reddens, mortified and flustered as Howard carries on like nothing happened. Steve feels like his skin is too tight for him, his face hot and red as he struggles to piece together his mind again.

It flashes again in his mind, the curve of Bucky’s back, the low, throaty moan that Steve fantasized about _quite_ regularly. He wanted to hear it again but next time because of him, on his knees in front of Bucky, maybe. A hand in his hair, a moan of approval, his name whispered on Bucky’s lips like a prayer–

The chill of the drink in his palms does absolutely nothing to cool him down, his face an impressive shade of cherry tomato as he suddenly realizes he’s tenting his pants in the middle of a goddamn garage.

“I actually have to, I– um, I’m gonna. Go get another one. Yum.” He stammers, standing up fast and tipping his chair over in his haste with a loud clatter. He holds up the drink by way of explanation, even though he’s not even halfway done with it.

“Kitchen’s to the left if you go in the front door.” Howard says arily without looking up. “Though there’s a few on the tray in here.”

Steve stumbles out of the garage, pressing himself to the side and trying to take deep breaths to avoid having a damn asthma attack. Lust and need and jealousy coil through him and he can only wonder if that fucking guy did that on _purpose_ to get a rise out of Steve. Does he know? Does he suspect? Would he tell Bucky and destroy his entire life just so he could be #1 in Bucky’s life again? His head spins with it, already light-headed from the image and sound of Bucky moaning seared into his brain. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to count backwards from 100, trying desperately not to think about the way Bucky sounded.

“I hate you. I hate you so fucking much. I hope you put knives in this fucking thing because I’m going to kill you.” Bucky mutters, his burning face still pressed against the back of the chair.

“Aw, that’d be no fun.” Howard pouts, as though he wasn’t currently performing unheard of-before neural surgery. “If I didn’t know better, I think he liked it.”

“He’s _embarrassed_ , you ass.” Bucky protests, no heat behind his words. “Nobody wants to hear that from their best friend.”

“I’d say we begged to differ.” A jolt goes through Bucky, making him jump slightly. “Sorry,” Howard apologizes, frowning at the connections between his exposed shoulder and the arm. “You still good?”

“Yeah, just caught me off guard.” Bucky assures him, still looking the opposite direction. “And _stop_ that.”

“What?” Howard hums innocently, tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth in concentration. “It happened.”

“Someone’s going to hear.”

“And what? Gossip on the boss that’s employed them for decades through the Depression? They’ve turned a blind eye to much worse.” He pauses his work, glancing back at the open door. “I did what you asked.”

“What?” Bucky is caught off guard, turning his head back towards Howard.

Howard nods in the direction where Steve fled, turning back to Bucky’s shoulder. “You told me to keep an eye out for him. Kid gets himself in more trouble than you’d expect—though I guess you did expect that.”

“What did he– oh, hi Steve.” Bucky pales a bit, his voice weakening. Would he ever actually be able to look Steve in the eye without that horrific moment playing back in his mind? Maybe Howard had memory erasure tech by now.

“Oh, the man of the hour.” Howard follows Bucky’s gaze, grinning sharply. “Y’know that secret project I told you the government contracted me for? It failed, so I expect things’ll be declassified soon after the war ends anyway. It had a...human experimentation element.” He chooses his words carefully, half-expecting Carter to rappel down from the ceiling and shoot him in the forehead if he went any further.

Steve stills halfway to the chair, still looking frazzled and holding the same melting drink. Bucky’s stomach goes sour.

“You–” Steve starts, blinking at Howard like he’s seeing him for the first time.

“His name popped up on the files for people that were chosen. Don’t know how he got there in the first place, but I caught him right in time. Probably saved his damn life.”

Steve’s world cracks beneath him, anger filling the gaps like lava. The way he’d been so unexpectedly pulled from the program, the mysterious orders that had him specifically sent home when he had made it so far. Howard. Impossible. And yet…

“You _what_.” Bucky stays dead still only out of necessity for the delicate surgery going on to his left, his voice low in the way Bucky so rarely uses on Steve. The “you’re in deep shit” voice. He wonders if he could outrun them both if he got a head start.

“I couldn’t sit around and do nothing.” He defends himself weakly, clinging to the glass like a lifeline. “I had to go find you.”

“And _killing yourself_ was how you were going to do that?” Bucky’s eyes are dark and narrowed, glaring at Steve and making him wonder about how to go about changing his name and moving to California.

“I wasn’t going to die.” He protests.

“You were probably going to die.” Howard supplies helpfully. “Luckily for the both of you, you had me on board. The project failed anyway, kid. Guess science just isn’t there yet.” Though what science was capable of now was horrific, something Howard couldn’t put back on the shelf now that it was almost ready. It sickened him, what he had become, but he had made his choice. He had tried to do good and it had gotten him nowhere and had almost stripped him of his honor as a scientist entirely. But destruction was something he could do, something familiar. Perhaps this was the last good thing he would be able to do, his last testament to the fact that there was, at one point, morality in him. He figured it was too late, regardless. Still,this wasn’t for his sake, it was for Bucky’s. It was always for Bucky.

Steve has the gumption to look disappointed, busying himself by righting the chair he had been sitting in and inching it slightly away from Bucky’s death-glare.

“And then he got himself thrown in the slammer for a bit.” Howard drops the second bomb, trying not to find too much pleasure in watching Steve squirm. Serves him right, for having a boy so clearly in love with him at his fingertips for years and not taking advantage of it. What Howard wouldn’t do to be in his position, to have _anyone_ look at him the way Bucky watches Steve. He expects the knee-jerk reaction from Bucky better this time, pulling his tools away from his shoulder as Bucky starts.

“ _You what._ ” Bucky shoots, his right hand gripping the side of the chair so forcefully that the metal began to warp.

Steve stirs his drink, scowling at the stupid paper umbrella floating around inside. “It was just a scrap that the cops got involved in for nothin’.”

“His bail was a whole crisp Jackson.” Howard supplies, delighting in the way Steve glares at him.

“You needed _bail_?!” Bucky all but shouts, the metal rod snapping beneath his palm. They all stop, staring at the place where the chair back to connect to the seat like they can’t quite figure out what happened.

“It’s an old chair.” Howard cuts in before they can say anything else, resuming his work as though nothing had happened. His mind burns with questions about what the fuck they _did_ to him in Austria, though he knows he doesn’t have a right to ask those things. Not anymore, and especially not here.

“How did you know that?” Steve snaps, momentarily forgetting Bucky’s impossible feat and focusing on Howard’s stupid mustache. It was stupid. He hated it. He hated this guy.

“I have friends in lots of places.” There’s a flurry of sparks and Howard leans in closer, grinning wildly. “Damn, now we’re cooking.”

“Howard.” Bucky interrupts, more worried about Steve’s delinquency than his prosthetic.

Howard just waves a hand dismissively, running a gloved hand over the seam of the arm. “I got him out of there, Buck, don’t worry.”

 _H.S._ Steve chastised himself for not making the connection before. Stupid. Stupid fucking mustache.

“We’re going to have a conversation about this when we get home.” Bucky promises lowly, pointing at Steve threateningly with his left hand.

They all stop, stare at Bucky once again.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. It actually works.” Howard breathes, his eyes wide.

Bucky stares down at his hand, finally realizing what he had done. “How in the–”

“It’s wired to your neurons, just like a real arm. It’s never been done before, the tech is way ahead of its time, but it should act exactly like the old one. Just...shinier.” He waves his hand over the arm, his eyes as wide as saucers as he watches Bucky flex and move the fingers.

“How does it feel?” Steve asks, finding it impossible to take his eyes off of Bucky. He looked, for lack of a better word, _good_.

“A little heavier, but just like the real thing.” Bucky twists his wrist, splaying his fingers out and laughing. “Holy hell, Howard, you did it. You really did it.”

“Nothin’ but the best for you, pal.” Howard is distracted by his own shock, not expecting everything to go well on the first try. There’s still so damn much to test, to make sure it doesn’t pull on Bucky’s other muscles and give him a limp, to test what it can really do. And then there’s the problem of the metal, though he hasn’t found a way to cover it with some sort of realistic skin without restricting the movement of the plates that make the arm move so naturally.

He could have done this, making prosthetics for people that didn’t have a choice in whether or not they got their hands and legs blown off in battle. He could have done something _good_. Could have.

“God, Howard…” Bucky says, his eyes filling with tears at the restoration of some of his self-sufficiency. He had done this for _Bucky_ , had defied the laws of machinery and biology for _him_. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m just so glad you’re home.” Howard rasps, his voice hoarse and soft enough so that only Bucky hears it. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” He cups the back of Bucky’s head and presses a kiss to his forehead, a simple gesture they had started as kids and continued up until they had slept together that fateful evening. To Steve, it makes him see nothing but red.

To Bucky, it feels like goodbye.

 

* * *

 

Steve shoulders his messenger bag as he turns the key in the lock, shouldering it so the warped wood door will open.

“Buck, I’m home.” He calls, running a hand through his hair and letting his bag drop to the floor. “Buck?” He walks further into the apartment and stops cold.

Bucky is sitting at the kitchen table, an open box filled with clothes and packs of cigarettes spilling out onto the table. Bucky looks up at him with an unreadable expression, gripping a letter. Steve can make out the sketch of Bucky, drawn a year before in October, on the back of one.

_The letters._

* * *

**_"no moving" - ([middi](https://twitter.com/MiddiMidori/status/1189434629637332993))_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone go check out the amazing [middi](https://twitter.com/MiddiMidori) on twitter! look at her beautiful rich bucky art! i'm STILL NOT OVER IT.


	14. fall, 1944-winter, 1944

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am SO sorry for the delay everyone! i've been going through a rough spot mentally and it was really hard to write for a long time. thank you for your patience! also note that the tags and rating has changed for this fic, so please check those out before reading!

There was nothing that Bucky wanted as a reminder from the war, but they delivered his personal effects to him, finally shipping the few belongings he had before he was captured in Azzano. A sweaty courier no older than 13 delivered it to his door while Steve was at work, squinting at the name on the label.

“You Mr. Barnes?” He asks in a thick Staten Island accent, looking up at Bucky. Bucky nods.

“Sign here.” He unceremoniously shoves a pad of paper and a pencil at him, swapping him the signed paper for the box.

“Personal effects, sir. Thank you for your service.” The kid doesn’t really sound like he means it and Bucky likes him for it.

The box is light like he expected, and though he would rather just pitch the whole thing, he knows he should keep the letters his family send him while he was away. He opens the top, rifling through a few spare safety razors, a jacket he had picked up near Milan. They had managed to send back his battered copy of _The Great Gatsby_ , though he’s sure it would serve someone else far better back on the front. The letters are at the bottom, a stack of them bound together with twine. He frowns, wondering how many letters Becca had sent him in his absence that got there while he was already deployed out to Azzano—the stack was far thicker than he had remembered it, some of them larger packages he definitely didn’t remember receiving.

He pulled on the twine to loosen it, pulling the letters free and shuffling through them. His heart sticks in his throat when he sees Steve’s familiar cursive, proof that he had thought about him during the war. They must have gotten lost for a time, or else he had just missed him before he was captured. Steve had never mentioned sending Bucky any letters, though he figured there was far more pressing issues to worry about once Bucky had returned stateside.

He finds ten of Steve’s letters, from V-Mail to packages and everything in-between. He had written him. _Steve had written him._ Even though he knew now that Steve had largely forgiven him and allowed him back into his life, relief and gratitude still washed over him in tandem.

He opens the first one and begins to read.

He almost feels as though he’s reading Steve’s diary, something private and intimate as he becomes privy to Steve’s vulnerable and raw emotions after he had left. Despite everything they’ve worked through, it still hurts like a knife reading how desperate Steve was to have him come home, how fucking _angry_ he continued to be and yet still wanted to figure out a way to continue what they had. He didn’t deserve him. He never had.

It’s unmistakably Steve’s handwriting, though for reasons completely unbeknownst to Bucky he decided to sign his name as _Stephanie_. He thinks it could be censors, though that makes little sense since plenty of people received letters from relatives and friends still back home. It makes him anxious, wondering what the hell kind of game Steve’s playing at to be doing this.

He opens the fifth letter and feels his vision spot at the edges.

He blinks once, twice, squeezes his eyes shut and counts to ten before opening them like he’s trying to trick himself out of a dream.

The words are still there.

 _I love you_.

His heart stops, stutters, starts again at a breakneck beat.

He made it through nine months of grueling Army training, the front lines of war, months of Nazi torture but this— _this_ would be the thing that would swallow him whole and leave him six feet under.

He reads the letter once, twice, three times over to make sure he isn’t hallucinating or reading it wrong. The words are still there, burning a brand on the backs of his eyelids as his brain breaks and reforms around his new reality. Steve, in love. Steve, in love with _him_. Everything—perhaps the only thing—he had ever wanted but couldn’t have for years now, right in front of him. He chokes on the suddenness of it, so many years pining for something that he no longer knows how to act in light of this impossibility.

He rips open the subsequent letters, wondering how the hell he managed to miss the signs that Steve was ever into him. How the hell Steve never got the signs that Bucky spent most of his life barely able to keep his hands off of him. They had danced around each other without knowing and Bucky was mentally kicking himself over and over again for not seeing it sooner. Wasted years that could have been spent in each other’s arms rather than Bucky in the bed of random men and hating himself for not being able to get over Steve.

Steve loves him.

 _Steve Rogers loves him_.

He bites back a hysterics from the _too-much_ -ness of it all, caught between tears of relief and grief and uncontrollable, joyous laughter. Steve loved him. Steve loved him even though he fucked up beyond belief and needs Bucky just as much as Bucky needs Steve. He must still love him now, even if they still stumble over their own relationship on occasion and there’s a frostiness to Steve since he got the arm that he still can’t quite parse out. His stomach flips again and again like he’s taking gymnastics lessons again like he did when he was eight, pitching head-first into a trampoline. Maybe Steve didn’t love him anymore, losing it somewhere between Bucky being declared dead and getting an entirely new limb attached to him. Maybe he finally realized he was too good for Bucky, a fact that Bucky had known since the day he met Steve.

Maybe. Maybe maybe maybe.

His mind is so overloaded with flashes of emotion that he barely registers the tell-tale thunk of the door opening. He’s snapped back to the present when he hears Steve’s voice, tired after a long day of work. Steve, home. Steve, who wrote a year ago that he loved him. Steve, who had gone through so fucking much with and for Bucky and who put the goddamn sun in the sky as far as Bucky was concerned and maybe didn’t love Bucky anymore after everything he had put him through, but maybe, maybe, _maybe_ –

“Buck?” Steve comes into view and it punches the breath out of Bucky like he’s fallen flat on his back. He watches the way Steve stills to an unnatural degree as he catches sight of what Bucky has in his hands, not even daring to breathe. His eyes flick towards the letter, to Bucky’s face, to the letter again. Mortification is written all over his face, looking at the box of his things from the Army like it’s just killed his dog.

“Bucky, it’s not what it–”

Bucky stands and drops the letter onto the table in one fluid motion, his movements far more graceful now that he had the metal arm to counterbalance himself. Steve steps back as Bucky walks towards him, his messenger bag falling to the floor forgotten as he’s boxed in against the kitchen wall. Both of Bucky’s hands are pressed against the wall on either side of Steve’s head, the glint of metal reflecting off of the sunset filtering through the window and making Steve dizzy with it all. Bucky crowds into his space, a lock of hair falling into his eyes as he stares at Steve, his gaze hard and intense with something that makes Steve want to squirm out of his skin.

“Did you mean it?” Bucky rasps, his voice ragged and broken and low. Steve doesn’t dare breathe, his hands splayed flat against the wall instead of balled up into fists like his body is screaming at him to do. Bucky must be angry, furious with him for being so stupid as to fall for a man and then to risk Bucky’s reputation by sending it in letters that went through censors. They could have been found out, Bucky implicated in a scandal he wanted no part in and torn from his throne. He could have messed up everything. He should have never sent those letters, had stupidly thought the universe had intervened on his behalf by losing them before they had ever gotten to Bucky. He had ruined everything. Bucky was already so fragile and healing and now the biggest bombshell from Steve had just detonated their entire relationship. He wants to duck underneath Bucky’s arms and _run_ , to avoid that piercing gaze and the way his body reacts from being in such close proximity to Bucky. But he can do nothing but stare back like a spooked deer, eyes wide as his mind tracks the hard set to Bucky’s jaw and the curl on his forehead rather than the larger issue at hand.

He reaches for some semblance of brain function and finds himself lacking. Bucky is still staring at him, searching for an answer, though Steve doesn’t know what answer he wants.

So he nods and juts his chin out like he’s about to fight, his heart hammering in his chest and throat dry.

It’s so like Steve that Bucky can’t breathe, feeling everything at once for this perfect, impossible, incredible, stubborn-ass man.

“Say it.” Bucky tries again, not caring how destroyed his voice sounds. “I need to hear you say it.”

They both stand on the precipice of something earth-shattering, so close to tipping over into an unknown they will not be able to return from. They could still come back from this, pull away slowly and pretend that nothing happened like they had been doing for years and years and years.

Or.

_Or._

“I love you.” Steve whispers, barely above a whisper. It registers across Bucky’s face in flashes, the past fourteen years of secrets and uncertainty finally settling into something he can see through, like a clear day once the New York City smog clears.

An almost-pained sound wrests itself from Bucky’s throat as he cups Steve’s jaw with shaking hands. Steve can’t breathe, his chest tight like he’s about to have an asthma attack—either that or massive heart failure. Bucky doesn’t move, just looking at Steve with a mixture of awe and reverence like he just brought someone back from the dead and hung the stars in the sky purely for Bucky’s enjoyment. They both move at the same time, two opposite-end poles of magnets that had been kept apart for far too long. It’s as natural as breathing, leaning into each other’s space and pressing their lips together.

It’s everything and nothing like Bucky had imagined, Steve’s lips wind-chapped with a split down the side from a scrap he couldn’t get keep himself out of the week before. Electricity sparks across his skin everywhere he’s touching Steve and he’s positive he’ll burst out of his skin if he doesn’t get closer. It’s just a kiss, nothing the two of them hadn’t had before in darkened hallways and alleys and half-mistakes made in bars. But it’s nearly fifteen years in the making, an impossibility the two of them had been holding onto for so long despite the odds stacked against them, an impossibility neither could them _could_ let go of, much as they tried to. It’s a conclusion of a story that had been writing itself for the past dozen years, the two of them finding their way back to each other again and again despite it all.

An impossibility, and yet Bucky stood there, finally able to taste the mint on Steve’s lips and feel the way he absolutely _melted_ into him. He was in heaven, he was sure. He had died on that goddamn table in Austria and had somehow slipped into the upstairs only reserved for people like Steve. Steve, whose heart was beating so fast that Bucky could _hear_ it being this close; Steve, who had fistfuls of the front of Bucky’s shirt and was pulling him closer with all his strength, his lips parting against Bucky’s and making his brain fizz out.

Bucky acquiesces, pressing himself against Steve and pinning him against the wall. He’s fucking _addicted_ to the noise Steve makes as he runs his tongue along Steve’s lower lip, tipping his head to the side to kiss him deeper. He’s positive he could do this until the day he died, his thumb brushing Steve’s cheekbone and hips pressed against Steve’s and finally having permission to touch Steve exactly how he wants to. And God, does he want to touch him _everywhere_. But before he can move, Steve’s pulling back, cupping Bucky’s face as well and keeping him at a distance.

“Say it back.” Steve sounds like he’s just run up several flights of stairs, breathless and hoarse.

“I love you,” Bucky breathes, dizzy with the closeness. “I think I’ve loved you since the day I found you in that goddamn alley.”

Steve grips the hair at the base of Bucky’s neck, pulling him down with surprising force and crashing their lips together. It’s all desperation and hunger, years of pent-up frustration coming out in full force as they scramble to get closer. Bucky laughs against Steve’s lips, his eyes sparkling with amusement when Steve pulls back to squint at him in confusion.

“What?” Steve huffs, trying his best to sound more put together than he is.

Bucky just keeps laughing like a madman, pressing kisses to Steve’s forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his lips, his jaw because he _can_. Because Steve loves him back and Bucky doesn’t think he’s felt like this in his entire life—feels hope for the first time since the war started.

“I love you.” His face breaks out into another wide grin at Steve’s confused, exasperated look. “You love me.”

Steve softens, his hands resting on Bucky’s forearms. “I’ve been tryin’ to tell you for over a year now, Buck.”

Bucky leans down, pressing their foreheads together as he tries to catch his breath. “I caught on eventually, didn’t I?”

Steve just sighs and kisses him again, softer this time. His eyes burn with unshed tears, everything settling on him at once. He wasn’t a naive fool for loving Bucky because Bucky had always loved him back; he might still be broken, going to hell, a walking sin against nature, but at least he was _loved_. But he felt the loss of the wasted years of mutual pining as sharp as a knife, the grief and frustration of it hitting him like a ton of bricks. Bucky could have died. Bucky could have died thinking that Steve never loved him and Steve would have to live without knowing that Bucky loved him back. Even Bucky coming back from the dead wasn’t enough for them to get their shit together, Steve putting his own feelings aside again and again thinking he was protecting Bucky when they could have been having _this_. He could have had Bucky, laughing outright for perhaps the first time since he got back from Europe, breathlessly giddy and something like hope shining in his eyes. It was messy, it was raw, it was everything all at once.

But he wouldn’t trade any of it for the world. Would never trade Bucky for the world.

When he pulls back for air, he realizes he’s done a horrible job of holding back the tears, a few rogue drops tracing tracks down his cheeks. He barely has time to feel ashamed before Bucky is kissing them away, framing Steve’s face in his hands so gently it makes Steve want to sob.

“It’s okay, we’re okay.” He reassures Steve, punctuating every promise with a gentle kiss against his cheeks. “We’re okay.”

It’s not long before Steve realizes that Bucky is also crying, this being the one thing that finally pushes him over the edge into feeling safe enough to let go. And so they hold each other in the kitchen of the apartment where their hearts were shattered into splinters and where they put the pieces back together indiscriminate of whose they were originally, so that it was nearly impossible to tell where Steve began and Bucky ended.

* * *

They fall into bed shortly after for nothing more than finally being able to curl around each other without fear of rejection, too exhausted from the shock and emotion overload to do more than sleep. They wake the next morning not having to spring away from each other, Steve instead nuzzling his nose into Bucky’s collarbone with a sense of peace he hasn’t felt since 1932. He knows the world outside of their apartment is still harsh and violent to people like them, knows that Bucky’s family name complicates their entire relationship into an impossibility, knows that nothing about this situation is easy. But all of that falls away so damn easily when they haven’t had to face it yet, when it’s just the two of them watching the specks of dust dance in the soft morning light and listen to each other’s heartbeat as Bucky cards his fingers through Steve’s hair like it’s the most natural fucking thing in the world.

“I’m glad I didn’t get those letters when I was over there.” Bucky breaks the silence, twisting a lock of Steve’s hair around his finger as he watches the birds hop around on the fire escape through the window.

Steve glances up at him, frowning. “What?”

“I already didn’t want to be there. Only thing that kept me from goin’ real mad was the fact that I didn’t really have anything to come home to.” Bucky’s gaze stays fixed on the fire escape even as Steve shifts, swallowing hard around the hurt. “It was easier to shut things off and do what needed to get done, ‘cause I didn’t have anything else to focus on. If I had known you didn’t hate me _and_ that I actually had a shot in hell with you...God, I wouldn’t have been able to make it out there without going insane.”

The cold burn of self-hatred flares in Steve’s gut, his guilt over not sending the letters earlier growing and morphing into something uglier by the second. He could have not sent them at all, though he isn’t sure he would have ever gotten the gall to tell Bucky face-to-face after he had gone through hell and back. If he had sent him earlier, would it have changed anything? Could he have prevented Bucky being captured and tortured for all those months by letting go of his pride for once in his damn life? He had heard stories of men that had purposely shot themselves in the foot to get discharges to go home, maybe Bucky would have found a way back to him and he would have never–

“Hey,” Bucky cuts into his thoughts, tipping his chin up and forcing Steve to look Bucky in the eyes. “You’re overthinking.” He props himself up on his left arm, his jaw tight. “You didn’t do any of this.”

“But–”

“Steve, _please_.” Bucky cuts him off, his voice tight. “God, please, don’t. The last thing we need is you taking any of the blame for this too.”

 _We._ It sends a bolt down Steve’s spine, makes his stomach swoop even if Bucky is reprimanding him. We. The two of them, together against the world. Together.

They lapse into semi-comfortable silence, Steve letting Bucky have the last word in a rare conciliatory move. It isn’t long before he has to break the silence, though, his mind moving too fast for him to settle.

“What happens now?” He half-whispers, as though the walls could hear them.

Bucky is quiet, staring at the ceiling with his left arm propped behind his head. Some selfish part of Steve doesn’t want him to answer, to pretend that Steve didn’t say anything at all and act as though they have a chance in hell together in this world.

“I don’t know,” Bucky answers truthfully, swallowing audibly. “My father knows.”

Steve’s heart skips several beats, his vision tipping like it always did when panic started to settle in his bones. All those dinners, the party, the times Becca invited him over and played him off as a ‘good friend’ of Bucky’s, he knew–

“Not about you,” Bucky cuts in, quick to stop Steve’s spiraling. “About me. It’s part of the reason I was drafted. I shouldn’t have been, realistically—rich boys don’t go to war.” He muses, bitterness seeping into his voice. “My options were either go into service or be cut off from my family.”

Anger sparks low in Steve’s belly, his jaw setting as he finally realizes the reason George Barnes was so strangely detached from Bucky’s disappearance, oscillating wildly between guilt and icy anger that formed a thick barrier between himself and the world around him. Even if he didn’t know about Steve’s inclinations towards his son, George had to have known that something was off between them. Steve was the only one that was brought into the family fold by Becca, the one Bucky stuck to like glue whenever they were together. It was a goddamn miracle Steve hadn’t been thrown into the street the minute he walked into their home. It was a goddamn miracle Bucky was still standing, glory intact.

“You can’t fight your way out of this one.” Bucky’s lips twist into a rueful smile, finally looking at Steve again. “He hasn’t said anything since I got back. I don’t know if he’s too afraid of the public ramifications of throwing a wounded vet to the wolves, or if he genuinely feels guilty. Either way, I’m sure the conversation will come back around once things have settled.”

Unexpected, angry tears burn behind Steve’s eyes, frustrated again with himself for ever thinking there was a way out of this. There never was, not even back when he thought Bucky was cut from the same cloth as him. There was no hope for them when he wrote those damn letters, and there sure wasn’t as hell much hope even when Bucky pressed his lips against Steve’s and said the three words Steve had been dying to hear his whole life. Still, the unfair offenses dealt against them continue to pile up, overwhelming and impossible to scale. It cannot be enough that Bucky came back from the dead and came home to Steve. It cannot be enough that Steve forgave Bucky after years of lying and still loved him. It cannot be enough that they love each other. The books his father had left in haphazard stacks before he left to go to war had lied to Steve—love wasn’t enough. Not for them. Not for this.

Bucky’s got his hands on his waist before he can think, pulling Steve on top of him and sitting up to kiss him. Steve squeezes his eyes shut and tries to stop the tears and focus on Bucky’s mouth hot on his, _wanting_ him in spite of what he had been telling himself for years.

“We’ll find a way,” Bucky promises, lies through his teeth to Steve as well as to himself. “I’m not leaving you.” He kisses the tear tracks on Steve’s face, pulls him down as he lies back and rubs his nose against Steve’s.

And even though there’s hardly two layers between them as Steve settles against Bucky’s hips, even though Bucky has flipped Steve on top of himself as though Steve was nothing more than a sack of sugar, even though Bucky’s lips are _right_ there and Steve wants nothing more than to lean forward and taste him again, his brain can’t stop focusing on one particular detail.

“How did your father find out?” He asks, cursing his stupid mouth for moving faster than his brain.

Bucky stills, frowning as he pulls back from Steve and lets his head hit the pillow with a thump.

“Another time, okay? Can we just have a nice morning together in bed? I have a lot of time to catch up not being able to do this.” It takes all that’s in him to hold Steve’s gaze, cupping his cheek with his right hand. “Please.”

Whatever protest Steve has on his lips dies with the look in Bucky’s eyes, half-pleading and desperate, as though he might bolt if Steve moves too suddenly. And though something like fear curls low against his spine, he leans forward and kisses Bucky. He will not be the one to ruin this morning any further and dammit, they can live in this bubble they’ve created for themselves just a bit longer.

* * *

They barely leave the apartment for days on end, content to stay wrapped up in each other and make up for lost time. By some unspoken agreement they barely go past necking, Steve content to let Bucky move at whatever pace was best for his head, and Bucky too afraid of hurting Steve and hating the scars that still criss-crossed his body. But they explore each other, tease half-moans out of each other and finding what drives the other mad. Bucky feels like he’s constantly electrified, awed every time Steve walks into his sightline and he remembers all over again that Steve loves him back. He can cross the kitchen in two long strides and press Steve against the counter as he tries his best to chop vegetables, kissing his neck until Steve either dissolves into breathless laughter or threatens to cook _him_ for dinner if he doesn’t cut it out.

He’s ecstatic most of the time, content to live within the walls of their tiny, shitty apartment because it means that they can be _together_. There’s something in him that stitches itself together, bit by bit, every time Steve smiles at him, the smile that’s always been reserved just for Bucky. He feels normal almost, sometimes, when he gets to say he loves Steve without hesitation, when he’s got a hand on the back of his neck and his lips pressed to that sweet spot underneath his jaw.

But he still doesn’t touch Steve with his left hand. He’s still trapped in bed for hours or the whole day, unable to do more than stare at the ceiling and want the whole earth to swallow him whole. He makes himself sick with the anxiety over where to go from here, knowing full well that he can never be happy with anyone else other than Steve. He can’t pretend any longer to be the perfect heir they all want him to be, marry some rich dame and have a couple of kids on the side. Maybe before, when Steve was an impossibility. But now that he gets to hold Steve every single night, to tell him exactly how he feels without fear of rejection, of being able to be physically close to the man he’s been keeping himself away from for years is _addictive_. He knows there’s no coming back from this, not in a year or a million.

And so he lies, frozen, half-expecting to be carted off again and cut into. Steve does his best to help but there’s little he can do to reach Bucky those days, lying next to him and gently plying him with food and water and reassurances that he doesn’t mind taking care of him. Steve gradually phases out of his job with the WPA, no longer able to paint propaganda war posters with a clean conscience while holding Bucky at night as he thrashes and cries out from whatever they did to him. It kills both of them, Bucky screaming in his own head to snap out of it and be there for Steve and Steve worrying himself to the bone for being unable to fix it.

And so, Steve starts painting Bucky again.

He’s gained muscle, a metal arm, and a faraway look to his eyes, but the rest comes as easily as breathing for him—sketching the planes of his face and torso from memory. It’s Bucky how Steve sees him, breathtaking and heart-stoppingly handsome in a way that would make Steve feel self-conscious if Bucky didn’t worship Steve’s body like he was a god.

Steve’s bad ear is closest to the bedroom door and he’s far too focused on the canvas before him to hear Bucky come up behind him, a quiet intake of breath the only indication that he’s seen.

“That’s how you see me?” Bucky says quietly, making Steve jump a little. He turns around, a crooked, apologetic smile on his lips.

“Warn a guy, will you?” He tries to joke, already catching sight of the clouded-over look in Bucky’s eyes. He turns back to the canvas, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, of course. It’s been a while since I’ve made a full piece of you.”

Bucky traces the lines of his own profile with his eyes, something inscrutable on his face. “I should’ve known you were dizzy with me years ago, with how much you draw me.” He finally says, a small smile on his lips, dodging talking about whatever else is on his mind.

Heat floods Steve’s cheeks anyway, rubbing the back of his neck and setting his pencil down on the canvas ledge. “Well, you didn’t catch on.”

“Neither did you.”

“Was I supposed to?” Steve raises an eyebrow, silently grateful for the banter that comes less easily these days between them. Anything to keep Bucky smiling, he’ll take.

“I damn near tripped over myself every opportunity I could to find ways to get you things.” Bucky crosses his arms over his chest, mirroring Steve’s cocked eyebrow. “I just bought you paintbrushes instead of flowers.”

Another flush of color creeps up Steve’s neck and he turns back to the canvas, pretending to scrutinize his progress. “Did you ever think I was good? Or were you just tryin’ to impress me so I’d kiss that smirk off your mug?”

Bucky is quiet for a few beats, long enough that Steve begins to worry that he’s overstepped.

“Both, I think.” Bucky huffs a laugh, kissing the top of Steve’s head as he wraps his arms around him from behind. “But I always thought you were good. Even before I wanted to take you dancin’.”

Steve rolls his eyes but can’t keep the grin off his face, leaning into Bucky’s touch as he whacks his arm lightly. “I’m not your girl, Buck.”

“Aw, c’mon Stevie. You don’t wanna go dancin’ with me?” He can feel Bucky smile against the crown of his head, his lips moving towards the shell of Steve’s ear.

“You know damn well I can’t dance.” Steve tries his best to suppress a shudder as Bucky kisses along his ear, refusing to break. “The gals down on Dekalb might fall for that, but not me.”

“You don’t like when I talk sweet t’you?” Bucky drawls, mouthing at the junction of Steve’s jaw.

“You’re impossible.”

“Hey, sugar, are you rationed?” Bucky teases, yelping in mock shock when Steve pinches his right arm.

“That mouth is going to get you in trouble one day, Barnes.” Steve muses, tipping his head back to look at Bucky.

“You would only be so lucky, Rogers.” Bucky grins wolfishly down at him and Steve flushes again, cursing himself for walking straight into that one. A retort dies on the tip of his tongue when he sees Bucky’s focus shift back to the canvas, something unreadable clouding his features again.

“I don’t know if I’m that guy anymore, Stevie.” He says, his voice softer. Steve reaches a hand up and squeezes his wrist, following Bucky’s gaze back down to the rough sketch.

“Everyone changes, Buck. It’s okay.” Steve tries, hating himself for not knowing better what to say, _how_ to say it. “I love you plenty just the way you are.”

Bucky’s features soften marginally at that but he still doesn’t take his eyes off of the canvas. “Doesn’t make it any easier, though.”

The portfolio of pieces of Bucky done before the war stays underneath their bed, untouched.

* * *

Bucky doesn’t mention the prosthetic after it’s been attached, preferring to keep it under coats and long-sleeved shirts and gloves, regardless of weather. It draws less attention when the leaves begin to change and fall, but it’s only when they crawl into bed for the evening that Steve even gets to see the metal. Steve tries his best not to ask, only pressing immediately after he had gotten it attached to make sure he wasn’t in any pain as he adjusted. Bucky still doesn’t touch him with his left hand, dodges when Steve moves to lace their fingers together and largely keeping it covered when they’re in the apartment alone.

Bucky doesn’t talk about it. He also doesn’t talk about how quickly he recovers from colds and minor injuries, or how he crushes things on accident like he’s some kind of giant. He had hoped that after he had recovered from Austria that everything would go away, the super-fast healing and tendency to bend metal with his bare hands just a fluke of his body’s response to trauma. Adrenaline made people do crazy things, he reasoned. It would settle down.

It doesn’t settle down. He still snaps pencils in half without meaning to, crushes glasses, heals too quickly from shaving nicks. He’s hungrier, less tired, more alert in a way he hasn’t ever felt before. He’s terrified of it, terrified of what they did to him and too afraid to look for answers. He assumes all the scientists in the facility are six feet under, or at least haven’t given up any of their secrets yet. He knows he could go to Howard or through his father’s military connections and find out what the hell happened, demand answers about what’s happening to his body until they figure out. But he’s afraid too, Howard’s work with human testing hitting a nerve far too close to home for comfort. He doesn’t want to become a guinea pig again, doesn’t trust the Allies any more to make sure they don’t fuck him up further.

He stays quiet and prays to whoever will listen that it burns itself out of his system.

It’s fine. Until. _Until_.

Bucky still isn’t totally thrilled about being in public, anxious prickling on the back of his neck alerting him of danger that isn’t there until he feels like he’s about to suffocate in such an open space. But he can’t stay in their shitty apartment forever and walking around Brooklyn is far easier a task than dealing with his family’s neverending parade of guests, so he accompanies Steve on his errands when he can, helping carry folders of commissions as he delivers them to newspapers and magazines across the city. Bucky is eternally grateful that Steve never pressures him to come along, but he can see the secret smile when he hauls himself off the couch, grumbling about how he needs to make sure Steve keeps his scarf on or he’ll be spoon-feeding him soup for the next three weeks.

“I don’t think they’re gonna win next year, Buck.” Steve mumbles behind his scarf, his hands shoved deep in his pockets as they walk back from the Brooklyn Eagle office. Steve had finished a full-color spread for the year’s Christmas gifts, grumbling the entire time about how rich kids all over the country were getting spoiled this year with useless things while people were starving in the streets. Still, it nabbed him a crisp $10 that put a spring in his step, regardless of how little he needed to worry about money with Bucky having his back. He still insisted on taking jobs and making his own money, no matter how many times Bucky tried to pull him back to bed and laze around with him instead.

“You’re just bitter the Dodgers didn’t even place top ten this year.” Bucky knocks his shoulder against Steve’s, biting back a smile. “Always next year, pal.”

“You’ll be eating those words when the Yanks finish last next year.” Steve mutters darkly, too busy trying to stay upright against the bitter November wind that he doesn’t see the man in the middle of the sidewalk until they’re nearly on top of him, Bucky catching his elbow and tugging him back before he runs head-first into the man’s chest.

“Well, if it isn’t lil’ Stevie and his shadow.” Steve suppresses a groan at the sight of Mickey, the guy with more brawn than brains that had found special delight in pushing Steve’s buttons since the ripe age of 15.

For Bucky’s sake more than his own he tries to move around Mickey, gritting his teeth and swerving around him. Mickey sticks an arm out and laughs, shaking his head.

“Aw, c’mon Rogers. You can’t stop to say hi to an old friend?” And dammit, Steve _tried_ to be the bigger person.

“What, no Klan meeting today?” Steve bites, his hands balling into fists in his pockets. He sees Bucky stiffen in the corner of his eye, but he can take care of himself.

“Big talk for a lil’ guy that can’t even serve.” Mickey sneers. Steve glares up at him, unable to stop the flash of shame that still curls, low and hot in his gut.

“Probably did a hell of a lot more than you did, asshole.” Steve spits, stepping closer to Mickey and finally tugging his hands out of his sleeves.

“What, keep your boyfriend’s bed warm ‘til he came crawling back from the front?” The words are barely out of Mickey’s mouth before Steve swings at him, sloppy and blind with rage. He misses and tries again, all but seeing red as he lunges at him. Mickey just laughs and dodges his clumsy punches, hitting Steve square across the cheekbone. Steve barely has time to hit the pavement from shock before Bucky is moving, a blur as he catches Mickey across the jaw with a clean right hook. He easily blocks a blind swing from Mickey before pinning him against the wall, twisting his arms behind him. It’s a move he’s done a thousand times in training and with Steve, immobilizing your attacker and giving yourself a little more time to decide what to do next. What he hasn’t done before is hear the sickening pop of a dislocated shoulder and the clean snap of wrist bones, crushed like fine china beneath his grip.

Mickey screams in agony and Bucky drops him as though he’s been burnt, all but scrambling back in shock. Steve’s on his feet and tugging on Bucky’s jacket, repeating Bucky’s name until he looks at him with wide, horrified eyes.

“Buck, we gotta go, okay? Come on.” Steve says, only the slightest twinge of hysteria to his voice as he pulls Bucky towards their apartment. Bucky finally begins to move, following Steve as they run like bats out of hell towards their apartment. By the time they reach their door, Steve’s nearly hacking up a lung, leaning hard against the doorframe as he blindly gropes for his key in his pocket. Bucky is still white as a sheet behind him, not even breaking a sweat but still looking as though he had just seen a ghost. Steve finally gets them into their apartment, shouldering the door closed and leaning heavy against it.

Bucky heads for the bathroom, locking the door behind him without a word and turning on the shower.

Steve fumbles in the cabinet for his nebulizer, resting his head against the cool refrigerator door as he wills his lungs to stop burning and his head to right itself again. He takes shaky steps over to the bathroom, knocking softly.

“Buck?” He calls, hesitant.

He knocks again, louder.

“Are you okay?”

Silence.

“Can I come in?”

Silence.

Steve tries the knob. Still locked.

“Can we talk? Bucky, please. I’m not mad, I’m just worried.” He stresses, leaning against the door,

The water turns off, but the door doesn’t open.

Steve falls asleep with his back to the door, holding back tears of frustration and pleading every so often for Bucky to open the door. Hours later Bucky opens the door and Steve nearly falls backwards, blinking up at Bucky.

“Buck?” He says quietly, scrambling to his feet. “Are you okay?”

“Go to bed, Steve.” Bucky’s voice is gentle, ushering him towards the bedroom. “I think I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Steve is still blinking sleep from his eyes, yawning and rubbing the crick in his neck from falling asleep against the door. “What? No, come to bed.”

“Steve, please.” Bucky pleads, his voice cracking at the end as he holds himself at a distance from Steve.

Steve swallows his response, his brain finally waking up enough to unhelpfully remind him that he needed to stop being so damned selfish. This is what Bucky needed. So he digs his nails into his palm and nods, whispering a quiet “good night” as he walks to the bedroom. He doesn’t shut the bedroom door, staying awake most of the night listening to the level rise and fall of Bucky’s breathing and trying not to cry.

Bucky avoids him in the morning, an impressive feat considering the lack of square footage in the apartment. Steve can read the self-hatred written all over his face but can’t reach Bucky, who only shakes his head whenever Steve asks him if he wants to talk. He gives Steve a wide berth as he moves throughout the apartment, only moving when absolutely necessary and holding himself as though he’s afraid he might combust at any moment. It kills Steve to see him like this, terrified of his own body and locked inside of his own mind. But he lets him work at his own pace, leaving bowls of soup on the table for him and doing his best to not let it hurt too much when Bucky flinches away from Steve if he brushes past him unexpectedly.

The police don’t come and though Steve never expected them to, he’s grateful for one less thing on their plate. Bucky begins spending more and more time out of the apartment, sleeping on the couch and refusing to even _touch_ Steve. It drives Steve near mad but there’s little he can do but let him work through it on his own, too lost to even know how to help.

It’s a few days after the incident that Bucky starts packing a bag of his things, sitting dejectedly on the bed and rubbing the back of his neck in the nervous way he’s done since he was a kid.

“Bucky.” Steve stands in the doorway to their bedroom, desperately trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

Bucky looks up, jumping just slightly at his voice. “Hey.”

“What’re you doing?” Steve says, hating the way his voice wobbles despite his best effort.

Bucky doesn’t meet his eyes, his hands stilling halfway through folding a shirt. “I’ve been thinking I should move back to Manhattan.”

It stings like acid in Steve’s chest, his throat tightening. “Buck, _why_?” His voice breaks and Bucky can’t bear to meet his eyes, too ashamed of doing this to Steve, of not being able to be fucking _normal_ now that he has Steve.

“You saw what I did.” Bucky’s voice is flat, carefully devoid of emotion. He’s spent the past several days in his own head, scared shitless of his own body. It wasn’t going away. He wasn’t adapting. The Nazis had turned him into a goddamn monster, same as them. One miscalculated move and he could do that to Steve, shattering him underneath his touch in an instant. He knew Steve wasn’t the breakable china doll everyone made him out to be—he was the strongest damn person he knew. But he had _felt_ bones snap beneath his fingers as easy as a toothpick, had hurt someone far bigger than Steve with little effort. He could hurt Steve, actually physically _harm_ him because he didn’t know how to control his own body.

The thought alone was enough to make him sick to his stomach and set his hands shaking, so he isolated himself instead. He couldn’t hurt Steve if he didn’t touch Steve—could feasibly move back into his house and try and get someone incredibly discreet to try and fix him. And if there wasn’t a cure for whatever the hell they had stuck him with, then at least he could figure out how to manage it, to walk in the world without feeling like a fucking monster.  
“Bucky.” Steve repeats, walking into the room slowly. “That wasn’t your fault.”

“What, someone else damn near snapped his arm in half?” Bucky bites bitterly, wringing a shirt between his hands.

“You were just defending me.” Steve sits across from him on the bed, tugging the shirt out of Bucky’s hands. “Please don’t leave. Just talk to me.”

Bucky swallows hard, still staring at the suitcase as though it will swallow him whole. “I can’t hurt you.”

“That’s right. You can’t.” Steve says, inching a bit closer to him and shutting the suitcase with a soft click. “Because you never would.”

“You saw the same thing I did, Steve.” He shakes his head. “I’m not gonna let you be the next one. I can’t hurt anyone else, least of all _you_. If I go back home at least I can start figuring it out.”

“Figuring what out?” Steve asks, barely above a whisper. It’s the closest thing they’ve gotten to talking about what happened in Austria and he doesn’t feel like he can breathe or he’ll spook Bucky away again.

“Whatever the fuck they did to me.” Bucky’s voice is quiet, defeated, _scared_ and it breaks Steve’s heart in two. He moves the suitcase off the bed slowly, inching closer and sitting in front of Bucky, the closest they had been in days.

“Bucky, look at me.” Steve whispers, holding out a hand. “Please.” Bucky still cannot bring himself to deny Steve anything and finally meets his gaze, vulnerable and scared in a way he hasn’t allowed himself to be for so long.

“You are not going to hurt me,” Steve begins, resting a hand on top of Bucky’s right. Bucky jumps a little, but doesn’t pull away. “I’m not made of glass, and you are not a monster.” He squeezes Bucky’s right hand gently, holding Bucky’s gaze. “I trust you more than I’ve trusted anyone save Ma, God rest her soul. Never in a million years would you hurt me, Buck. I know that.” He covers Bucky’s left hand with his right, refusing to let go when Bucky makes a noise of protest.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Steve says, tugging at the glove covering Bucky’s left hand. “I could never be afraid of you.” Bucky watches, frozen as Steve laces his fingers with Bucky’s metal ones. He tries to pull away, his heart jumping in his throat at the wrongness of it all, but Steve holds his grip with surprising strength.

“James Buchanan Barnes.” Steve says firmly, enough chastising in his voice that Bucky stills out of habit. “When I said I loved you I meant all of you. Including this.” He pulls Bucky’s metal hand towards his chest, pressing it flat against his heart. “Especially this.”

Bucky stares at his fingers splayed across Steve’s too-thin chest, his heartbeat a hummingbird underneath the synthetic nerves that let him feel almost just as much as his real hand did. He has long lived with the simple fact that he does not deserve Steve—knew that the day he met him and was reminded every day since 1932. Still, he’s bowled over with the stunning realization again and again that Steve Rogers puts the goddamn sun and stars in the sky and Bucky has never deserved to revolve around him, much less be invited this close to his warmth. He would crack the earth in two and come back from the dead for him again and again until he felt worthy enough, for as many times as Steve needed him to. He knows in his bones that he doesn’t deserve Steve, not after all the things he’s done, nor as the person he’s become. And yet Steve still holds him and names Bucky as _wanted_ and _loved_ and words he had begun to think were only reserved for libraries and museums and all things vaguely unreal.

Steve lets go of Bucky’s hand slowly, holding his gaze. “You aren’t going to break me.” He repeats, moving ever so slowly to crowd further into Bucky’s space. Bucky keeps his hand pressed lightly against Steve’s chest, not daring to move until Steve is all but on top of him.

“I don’t trust myself.” Bucky admits, his voice rough and quiet.

“Do you trust me?” Steve asks, leaning in close enough that Bucky finds it hard to breathe all over again.

“Yes.” He answers immediately, one of the few things he’s still 100% sure of these days.

“Then let that be enough.” Steve whispers, closing the gap between them and pressing his lips to Bucky’s. Bucky stiffens out of habit but doesn’t pull away, forcing himself muscle by muscle to relax into it and trust Steve to trust him.

Steve is patient with him as he tries to pull himself out of his own head, pushing on his shoulders until he’s lying flat and Steve’s straddling his hips. And despite his brain’s best efforts, it’s far harder to pay attention to his own anxieties when Steve’s hips roll forward, drawing a low moan from Bucky. Steve just smiles against his neck, busying himself with kissing down his throat and tugging on his collar.

“Bucky?” He hums in question, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

Bucky makes a stunted noise in response, his brain still recalculating.

“You can touch me.” Bucky swears he hears amusement in Steve’s voice, would have half a mind to snark at him if he had half a mind left. He rests his right hand on Steve’s hip, his touch light and hesitant. Steve just sighs gently in response, not stopping his distracting ministrations on Bucky’s neck as he grabs Bucky’s left hand and guides it to cup his ass. Bucky jolts, his hands flying away from Steve like he’s just been caught necking in the hallways by a nun.

“Steve–” He starts to protest, not trusting his lust-addled brain to keep things above the belt if Steve goes much further. He’s cut off by a long kiss to the lips, Steve’s eyes shining as he pulls back.

“Buck, _please_.” Steve’s voice breaks at the end, pleading in a way that makes Bucky’s brain short-wire all over again. “Do you want this?”

It’s open-ended, a million possibilities running through Bucky’s mind about what _this_ refers to, but he finds he can’t come up with a single one that he wouldn’t say yes to. He wants Steve in whatever capacity he can—the intimacy, the romance, the impossibility they’ve found themselves in that he still wouldn’t trade for a world of easy living. He wants _this_ for as long as Steve will have him, up to and including forever. So he breathes a yes, far too gone now to feel self-conscious about it.

“Then let yourself have it.” Steve murmurs, kissing him long and hard. “And touch me, for Christ’s sake.”

A full-body shiver runs through Bucky as he tentatively cups Steve’s jaw in one hand, resting the other on Steve’s hip. He doesn’t deserve this, not Steve nor the touching nor the way his entire body feels _alive_ , but it’s so hard to think about what he doesn’t deserve when Steve’s lips are on his. Even if he doesn’t think he deserves Steve, Steve wants him nonetheless and Bucky has spent his whole life unable to deny him anything. So he gives a tentative roll of his hips upward, gets drunk on the breathy sigh from Steve’s lips as a result, and lets go.

Steve tries to kiss every inch of exposed skin as though it will make his declarations of love sink into his skin like a tattoo, the invariable reminder Bucky so desperately needs in a world constantly shifting underneath him. Bucky arches into him, chases his lips and tries to fill his mind with nothing but _Steve_. His left hand moves from Steve’s hip to underneath his undershirt out of instinct, causing Steve to jump. Bucky freezes instantly, fear bolting through him once more.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Steve murmurs, leaning back into him and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “‘S just a little cold, that’s all. It’s okay.” He covers Bucky’s left hand with his own, pressing it against his skin. “Trust me.”

And Bucky does, running his thumb along Steve’s hipbone and relishing in the way Steve melts into the touch, sighing softly into his mouth. It’s addictive, the way he opens up for Bucky and the way they slot together so perfectly, made for each other despite the fractures in and between them. He lets his other hand drop to Steve’s side, pulling his undershirt from his slacks in small, hesitant motions. Steve barely needs any prompting, sitting back up on Bucky’s hips and pulling his shirt over his head. He leans back down to capture Bucky’s lips, fingers making swift work of his button-down. The undershirt is next to go, tossed somewhere to a corner of the room as Steve presses their bare chests together and kisses down Bucky’s neck.

It sets off something within Bucky, using his leverage on Steve’s hips to flip them over, pressing Steve into the mattress and sliding a leg between Steve’s. Steve gasps like the breath has been punched out of him, rolling his hips up into Bucky. Bucky’s brain nearly goes white from being able to feel the hard length of Steve against him, dizzy with pleasure as he kisses along his collarbone. It’s still hard to believe—he had slept with plenty of guys that could halfway pass as Steve in the dark, screwing his eyes shut and pretending that he was kissing along Steve’s ribs. And now he has Steve actually beneath him, flushed pink and arching into his touch like a goddamn Renaissance painting.

He kisses a line down Steve’s stomach, stopping right above his belt line and glancing up at Steve through his lashes, a silent ask for permission. Steve groans, dropping his head back and staring at the ceiling.

“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.” He breathes, running a hand through his hair. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“I’ve been sayin’ the same thing for years, doll.” Bucky drawls, toying with the button to Steve’s slacks. “Is this okay?”

“ _Yes_. God, yes.” Steve murmurs, his hands fisting the sheets.

“Such a mouth on you.” Bucky shakes his head, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips as way to distract from the way his hands shake as he unbuttons Steve’s slacks, pulling them down. He’s done this plenty of times before, but it had never really mattered then. This mattered. This was the _only_ thing that mattered.

“I’ll show you mouth.” Steve attempts to grumble, the gesture falling flat as his breath hitches up at the end of his sentence when Bucky hooks a finger underneath his briefs and tugs them down. He pulls off the rest of his clothes slowly, dumping them unceremoniously at the foot of the bed and nudging Steve’s legs apart, sitting back on his haunches to just _look_. Steve flushes under the attention, the bravado gone now that he’s being appraised like fine art. He had dreamt about this for years now, Steve laid bare beneath him, his cock dripping precome and flushed red. _God_ , he made a masterpiece. And he was going to devour him whole.

“You’d think half a lifetime would’ve been enough waiting.” Steve mumbles, but Bucky can see the way his breath has picked up, his chest rising and falling faster with anticipation.

“Just enjoyin’ the view, darling.” Bucky’s voice comes off as far less cocky than he means it to, already wrecked from just the sight of Steve. He hooks his hands underneath Steve’s knees, pulling him further down on the bed and nudging them apart further as he settles between them. He kisses along Steve’s inner thigh, finding it nearly impossible to think around Steve’s high, breathy moans. He takes one of Steve’s hands from where it’s bunched in the sheets, guiding it to rest at the top of his head and lacing his fingers with the other one.

And this, _this_ is what he’d been missing for so long with all the others—the emotional connection, the knowledge that this lasts just beyond tonight. He wants to take care of Steve, not just physically, but for the rest of his life in whatever ways Steve lets him. He’s loved Steve better than he’s ever loved himself and finally has gotten the impossible opportunity to show him all of that, in all the ways he can. Steve’s fingers twist in his hair, the other hand squeezing Bucky’s, and he takes the green light.

He licks a stripe along the underside of Steve’s cock, holding his hips down with one hand as Steve moans a filthy string of curses, his fingers tightening in Bucky’s hair. The sound goes straight to Bucky’s groin, flooding his body with more _want_ than he thought possible. He draws it out a bit more, small kisses pressed to his head and the flick of a tongue to catch his precome until Steve’s tugging at his hair, doing his best to make himself known without words. He chances a quick look up to Steve’s face, tipped back and throat exposed as he tries to stifle a moan, before wrapping his lips around his cock.

Steve tries to buck his hips up again, biting down hard on his bottom lip as he tries to keep quiet enough for the neighbors—a distant part of Bucky’s mind makes a mental note to take him somewhere far more insulated and remote where he can be as loud as he wants. He takes Steve’s cock as far as he can down his throat, his cheeks hollowing out and tongue running along the underside of him. He regrets plenty about his past exploits, but he can’t regret the things it taught him, able now to take Steve apart _incredibly_ effectively as he writhes beneath him.

It isn’t long before Steve’s tugging at his hair harder, chanting Bucky’s name like a prayer in desperate gasps. Bucky pulls off of him, crawling back up to Steve and smiling against his lips as he whines.

“Fuck you.” Steve breathes, no heat behind it as he runs his hands along Bucky’s sides.

“That’s the plan, darlin’.” Bucky smirks at the full-body shiver it sends through Steve, kissing his cheek. “If you want, of course.”

“Yes. Fuck, God, yes.” Steve’s hands blindly search for Bucky’s trouser buttons, chasing his lips. “Wearin’ too many damn clothes.”

“I was a little preoccupied.” Bucky huffs a laugh, leaning on one arm to unbutton his slacks and shimmying out of his briefs as well, kicking them off the bed. He tries his best not to think about the glint of metal to his left, focusing instead on Steve. “You’re sure?”

“Buck, _please_.” Steve tugs on his arm, leaning up to meet his lips. “I’ve had more than enough time to think about it.”

Lust bolts through his spine at the thought of Steve dreaming about Bucky inside of him nearly as much as Bucky had thought about it himself, waking up countless nights with a raging hard-on and the inability to meet Steve’s eye.

“I don’t have anything.” He admits, his heart sinking. Everything was kept at his house and promptly disposed of after his father found out about his escapades, the slick and condoms tossed in the bottom of the bathroom trash as though that would somehow redeem himself.

Steve flushes again, his eyes flicking to the right. “I uh, bought some things.” He colors again at Bucky’s cocked eyebrow, clearing his throat. “Just in case.”

Bucky was sure he couldn’t love him more. “You absolute dog.” He says, awed. “Where?”

“Under the bed.” Steve scrubs at his face, resisting the urge to groan.

Bucky hangs over the side of the bed, grabbing the paper bag sitting inconspicuously near the edge and shaking the contents free. He whistles low and long, smirking at Steve as he crawls back to him, vaseline and condom in hand. “This what all your commission money’s goin’ to?”

Steve turns an impressive shade of pink, glaring at him as best as he can. “You gonna start complaining?”

“You won’t hear a peep out of me.” He grins, kissing Steve long and hard. “You sure?”

“Dammit, Buck, _yes_.” Steve huffs, hooking his ankles around Bucky’s knees and pulling him closer. Bucky laughs against his lips, pulling back and uncapping the vaseline. “Let me know if you need to stop, okay?” His voice goes soft again, running a thumb along the side of his knee. “None of that push-through-it Rogers shit.”

“I promise.” Steve replies, caught between frustration and gentleness. His breathing picks up as he watches Bucky slide the vaseline onto his fingers, his cock twitching in interest. He had waited for this moment for so damn long that it feels surreal now, Bucky staring at him like he’s the most perfect thing in the world and Steve nearly delirious with want. For this moment, at least, he doesn’t care that the rest of the world would hate them for what they are, or that their relationship together is an impossibility with Bucky’s lineage. He has Bucky, and for right now that’s all he really needs.

Bucky rests his metal hand on Steve’s inner thigh, watching Steve’s face closely for any changes. “God, Stevie, look at you.” He murmurs, teasing his hole with his other fingers. Steve jerks, biting back an embarrassing moan and pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. “So fuckin’ pretty for me.” Bucky continues, pressing a finger into Steve slowly. “Just relax, sugar. I’ll make it feel good for you.”

Steve whimpers underneath him, squeezing his eyes shut and trying his best to relax. Past the initial burn and strangeness of it all, it feels _good_ , though whether that’s more to do with the fact that he’s hyper aware that Bucky is touching him in this way or the actual sensation, he’s yet to tell. His breath hitches in his throat as Bucky pushes further in, gentle as he can be and watching Steve’s face the whole time.

“Steve?” Bucky asks, running his metal thumb along his inner thigh. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, rolling his hips against Bucky’s hand experimentally and biting his lower lip. “Yeah, keep going.”

Bucky takes his time with him, kissing along his inner thigh and running his tongue up his cock until Steve relaxes underneath him, adjusting to th

“I’m gonna add another one, okay?” Bucky asks, pressing a second digit into him slowly at Steve’s noise of assent. Steve groans at the stretch of it, focusing instead on Bucky’s ministrations of his mouth and other hand. It’s far better than him doing it by himself, all awkward angles in the shower and the feeling of it never being enough. But now he’s got Bucky on top of him, worshipping his body and treating him so damn gentle so that he can take Steve apart with his cock. He shudders with the anticipation of it, his legs inching further apart as he asks for more.

“So impatient.” There’s amusement in Bucky’s voice as he bottoms out, pumping his hand slow to get Steve used to it. “Can’t wait just a bit longer?”

“Waited damn long enough.” Steve breathes, arching his back and stifling a low groan as Bucky scissors his fingers, beginning to relish the burn.

“A little bit longer won’t kill you.” Bucky crooks his fingers up, trying to find that spot that used to drive the other boys wild. He hits it soon enough, Steve arching off the bed with a moan that’s far louder than he intended. He’;s repeating Bucky’s name, rolling his hips in a desperate attempt to get him to hit that spot again. Bucky’s grin turns absolutely wolfish, his pupils blown with lust as he watches Steve writhe underneath him. He wanted to go back in time and beat his former self over the head with a crowbar for being so damn _stupid_ , for not trying to make this happen even earlier. He could have been doing _this_ instead of stupidly pining across the room, wishing he was buried inside of Steve when he likely would have been allowed to.

No time like the present, he figures.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, pressing a conciliatory kiss to his hip as Steve whimpers at the loss of them. “You still okay?” He checks again, ripping the condom wrapper open with his teeth and rolling it over his cock. He scoops a healthy amount of vaseline onto his fingers, pumping his cock slowly as he watches Steve watch him.

“Fuck, Bucky, _please_.” Steve whispers, his voice hoarse and tight.

And Bucky, unable to deny Steve anything, acquiesces, leaning over him and lining himself up. “Tell me if you need to stop, okay?” He searches his eyes, Steve far more sure of himself than Bucky is in this moment. He’s still afraid he’s going to break him clean in half, briefly wonders if perhaps he should have been lying on his back instead and letting Steve slide into him. The thought nearly punches the breath out of him, realizing that he wants quite literally everything with this impossible,. incredible man. Steve just kisses him in response, something far too sweet and gentle for what they’re about to do.

“I love you. Please.” He whispers, and Bucky presses impossibly slow into him. They both gasp, Steve around the burn of it and Bucky at how impossibly _perfect_ Steve is, tight and hot and taking him inch by inch like he was goddamn made for it. He finds it hard to breathe as he presses in, going slower than he thought possible with this much pleasure electrifying his skin. Steve urges him on, fighting past the pain and discomfort until Bucky’s bottomed out, panting over him like he’s just run a marathon.

“Holy shit.” Is all he can think to say, all of his Basic training coming in handy now as he practices enough self-restraint to keep himself from moving.

Steve huffs a half-laugh, forcing himself to relax around Bucky and letting Bucky kiss his forehead and cheeks until he adjusts to the burn. “Move.” He murmurs, nudging the side of Bucky’s face with his nose. “Please, _fuck_.” He moans low as Bucky thrusts slow against him, the burn and stretch morphing slowly but surely into pleasure as he moves.

“You feel so fucking good, _god_.” Bucky’s all but babbling into Steve’s ear, his left hand scrambling to find Steve’s as he laces their fingers together to ground himself. “Fuck, Stevie.”

“Bucky, please, I’m not going to break. Please.” Steve rolls his hips up to meet Bucky’s thrusts, the two of them crying out in tandem at the sensation.

Bucky picks up his pace, kissing along Steve’s neck and losing himself in the tight heat of him. He could die like this, he’s sure—blissed-out and happy and feeling _whole_. He would tear apart the whole damn world for Steve without a second thought. He would burn the whole goddamn thing down if it meant he could spend more time together with him, just like this. All the money in the world had never made him feel like this—hadn’t even come close.

He presses their foreheads together, repeating the only thing his lust-addled brain can think of at the time. “I love you, I love you, _I love you_.”

Steve’s moans pitch higher underneath him, driving Bucky nearly wild with it as he pants beneath him.

“Buck, please, _fuck_ I’m not gonna– I–” He babbles, his hips grinding against Bucky’s in a desperate attempt for _more_.

Bucky kisses him hard, wraps his free hand around Steve’s length, pumping him with the pace of his hips. Steve whines high, his whole body going taut as he jerks his hips up against Bucky’s fist, spilling over him with a cry that’s muffled by Bucky’s lips. Bucky can barely see straight as he snaps his hips into him several more thrusts, the way Steve clenches around him and those goddamn _noises_ he’s making pushing him over the edge. He chants Steve’s name and comes with a low moan, hips stuttering to a stop.

Bucky keeps himself up only by the sheer desire of not wanting to crush Steve underneath him alone, panting hard as he watches Steve slowly open his eyes. He could do this for the rest of his life, he thinks, watching Steve’s fucked-out face grin up at him like he’s just won a million dollars of his own.

“Told me you couldn’t break me.” He teases, his voice raspy and tired.

“Remind me to challenge you more often.” Bucky laughs, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He feels like crying. He feels like laughing. He feels like jumping onto their fire escape and screaming at the top of his lungs. His life’s a fuckin’ mess but he’s got this. He’s got this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> psa: please please please do not use vaseline and condoms ever.


	15. spring 1945-winter 1945

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait! my motivation has tanked and work has been kicking my ass lately. thank you for all being so patient! we're almost to the end, can you believe it?
> 
> also tw for those who have emetophobia this chapter!

“Barnes?” Howard’s voice comes through the phone, confused and distracted.

“What can you tell me about the project you were working on? The one Steve signed up for.” He’s tapping his fingers anxiously on the countertop, looking out the kitchen window into the alley and hoping Steve doesn’t get back early. He still hasn’t said anything about Austria to Steve and would prefer to not stumble into that conversation before he’s prepared.

The line is silent for a few pauses, then, carefully, “Not much. Why, is your boytoy–”

“It’s not about Steve,” Bucky cuts him off, a little sharper than he means it. Damn nerves. “It’s about me.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “You said you were doing human experimentation.”

Howard sighs, static crowding the line. “Buck, do you know how many papers I nondisclosure agreements I signed? Getting clearance for that stuff was hell; my hand nearly fell off signing shit.”

“You told me that Steve was involved, though.”

“Some things were declassified after the project was shut down. If nothing else, it helped the guys get back into service once they were through.”

“So what else was declassified?” Bucky chews on a thumbnail, a horrible habit his mother hadn’t managed to beat out of him.

“Why?” Howard asks and Bucky hears a heavy thunk of something in the background.

“Answer for an answer.” Bucky shoots back, losing patience.

Another heavy sigh over the line. “We were trying to create better soldiers. Stronger, faster, resistant to dysentery and the cold. It didn’t work.” He adds, a little bitter.

“But not just through training them.” It isn’t a question.

“No, through a lot of cellular biology I’m sure you’d catch onto real quick, which is exactly why I can’t explain it in a lot of detail. The science was sound, but it never worked like it was supposed to.”

“But you could replicate it.” Bucky hedges, anxiety twisting his stomach.

“The formula, sure. The results? Clearly not.”

“The Nazis workin’ on the same thing?” He asks again, pressing his palm flat against the countertop to keep it still.

Howard is quiet for too long to play it off as a thoughtful pause. “Above my paygrade.”

“Howard.” Bucky warns.

“What the Sam Hell _aren’t_ they working on over there?” Howard relents. “That’s honestly as much as I can say, Buck.”

The line is quiet, Bucky chewing on the inside of his cheek as his mind runs the possibilities.

“What did they do to you?” Howard finally asks, his tone gentler.

“I don’t know.” Bucky answers in a whisper, trying hard to not let his voice break. “But whatever it was, it fucked with me.”

“I can run some tests, maybe after—”

“Can you fix it?” Bucky cuts in.

A beat of silence, then two.

“I don’t know,” Howard hesitates. “I can’t promise anything until I see what we’re working with.”

“I can be over tomorrow.” Bucky offers, his fingers starting their tapping again. He could fix this. Howard could fix this. Whatever they stuck him with that made his muscles too strong and his movements too fast, they could take it out of him. He could be just Bucky again, without having to worry that he was going to take doors off their hinges every time he opened them.

More hesitation, too-long silence. “I’m not in New York, actually. I’m having Jarvis forward all my calls here, but I don’t think I’ll be back for a while.”

“Where are you now? I can catch a flight.”

“New Mexico.” A beat. “I’m tied up with work.”

Anxiety unfurls low in Bucky’s gut, Howard’s tone off in a way he hadn’t heard in a while. A flash of consternation sparks through him—he isn’t used to hearing “no” from people recently, particularly Howard. Steve would say he wasn’t entitled to anyone’s time just because he had fifty dollar trousers on. But Steve wasn’t here.

“It won’t take long, Howard, I just–”

“Buck,” Howard stops him, his voice turning exhausted. “I can’t. The government’s on my ass and we’re on the verge of something big. I promise I’ll ring as soon as I’m back in New York, yeah? We can run tests and figure out what’s going on.”

“Yeah, okay. Enjoy New Mexico.” Bucky can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice as he slams the receiver down a bit too hard for his liking, frustration flaring through him.

He knows he has no right to be angry. The little voice inside of him—the one that sounds eerily like Steve—tells him that he’s had an entire lifetime of monopolizing Howard’s attention. He had given him a second chance at a normal life by building him a new arm, had all but burned himself down to the wick to make Bucky more at ease with his body. Still, he can’t help but feel slighted at Howard’s distracted tone, the way he hadn’t immediately jumped at the opportunity to piece apart just what the Nazis had done to him. Howard was the only person alive he had alluded to about the torture, and he had barely blinked an eye.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, counting backwards from ten. It’s nothing. He’s fine. He hasn’t broken anything in over two days now, dedicating more time to learning his body over again. Everything is light touches and slow movements, Steve’s always-watchful eye on him but never questioning. He’s thankful for that much, at least.

He glances back at the phone, slumping against the counter. No help, then. Not til this damn war was finished.

* * *

“What if you spent the summer with me?” Bucky breaks the comfortable silence they’ve found themselves in, a lazy Tuesday spent with the windows open to let in the warm spring air and Steve sketching lazily on the couch. He sets down his pencil, peering over his sketchpad at Bucky.

“You can’t be serious.” He cocks an eyebrow, letting the sketchpad fall into his lap.

“It’s ridiculous that we go back and forth between the Hamptons and Brooklyn all the time. We have plenty of bedrooms—we’ll set you up in one for a few months. You’ll still be able to do your commissions,” Bucky straightened in his chair, setting his book to the side. “Hey, I bet you could work at the Met, even. We’ll get you a curator job, or you can do tours, or-”

“Buck.” Steve cuts in, gently. “Your father wouldn’t be thrilled about that.”

Bucky makes a face like he’s swallowed a lemon, quickly schooling his face into careful calm. “He doesn’t get to decide how I live my life anymore.”

“He barely tolerates me around as it is. He isn’t a stupid man—he’s got to know there’s something between us. Neither of us are with a girl, Buck, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist–”

“What can he do, Steve? Call a press conference and tell the country he’s disowning his amputated vet son because he’s a fairy? It’d be easy as that,” He snaps his fingers for emphasis, almost leaning out of his chair now. “To start another rumor that he’s just spreading lies to keep me from inheriting anything. Becca’s friends would be all but falling over themselves to claim that I’ve been goin’ steady with some of them throughout the years just so they’d get to claim some history with me. Imagine the backlash he would get in the middle of a war if he were trying to renounce his war hero son?”

Steve just blinks at him, watching the fire dance in Bucky’s eyes. It was almost reckless, something he hadn’t seen out of Bucky since he came back moving through the world as though he would shatter everything if he miscalculated a step. Reckless because of him. Reckless _for_ him.

“That’s a long time to be away from home.” Steve concedes softly. Bucky opens his mouth to reply but is cut off by the sudden switch of the radio, the soft jazz screeching over to a man’s excited voice.

_“We come to you with breaking news from President Truman.”_

The two of them bolt up, Bucky lurching across his chair to turn the volume up as loud as it will go.

 _“This is a solemn, but a glorious hour…”_ Steve looks at Bucky, wide eyes mirrored in anticipation, fear, _hope_.

_"General Eisenhower informs me that the forces of Germany have surrendered to the United Nations.”_

Bucky doesn’t hear the rest of Eisenhower’s speech, blood rushing in his ears as his world spins. Germany, surrendering. The war, almost over. He’s sure Japan will follow shortly, not able to stand against the rest of the Allied forces by themselves. Over. Over over _over_.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Steve is on him, dabbing at his cheeks with the corner of his shirt-sleeve and laughing wetly, joy and relief crashing over him in waves. Bucky tips Steve, kisses him long and hard as Steve laughs delightedly. He pulls him back up, hands on his shoulders as he looks into the face of the man he thought he would never see again after he had thrown down his gun in Italy.

“It’s over.” He breathes, needing to hear it from Steve’s lips too. To make it real.

“It’s over.” Steve agrees, pushing himself up on his tip-toes to press his face against the side of Bucky’s neck and hug him as tight as his strength would allow. Bucky’s captors put to trial, the death camps liberated by the Russians and Americans, the European continent free of Nazi rule. Steve feels like he’s breathing fresh air again, his lungs tight since ‘39.

“Can I bring you home for the summer?” Bucky asks, breathless as he grips the back of Steve’s hair and hugs him closer. “I’ll take you sailing. You can sip martinis by the pool all day. You can paint Becca in an evening gown and she’ll ask you to marry her on the spot. You can have whatever food you want whenever you want.” He pulls back, staring into Steve’s still-watery eyes. “Come home with me.”

Steve chews on the inside of his cheek, his heart full and light and _dammit_ what could go wrong?

“Okay,” He breathes, dissolving into laughter. “Okay.” He pauses, pinching Bucky’s side. “But you know I don’t drink gin anymore, you ass.”

* * *

When Bucky phones home to let his mother know they’ll both be coming home for the summer, she doesn’t say no. Bucky thinks it’s progress. Steve packs more art supplies than clothes despite Bucky’s insistence that he would have everything he needed waiting for him at the house, already setting aside an east-facing room for Steve so he can paint by the dawn. Becca throws herself into the role of younger sister a little too much for Bucky’s liking, filling Steve’s closet with three-piece suits and outfits that Bucky knows he’s just going to strip off later. She’s already collected a list of eligible women in her circle for Steve to choose from and pursue, much to both Bucky and Steve’s chagrin.

Steve spends the better part of the first month trying to make himself as small as possible, declining to let the house staff do anything for him and moving through the house as though he was a thief. Bucky knows he’s still wildly uncomfortable with the extravagant displays of wealth, the millions of dollars of art on the walls and family heirlooms hanging from his mother’s wrist that are worth more than Steve would ever make in his life. He’s thankful that his parents are absent for much of it—taking advantage over the Allied victory to oversee repairs to their favorite European houses—but he can still see the frustration, the _muchness_ of it all in the set of Steve’s shoulders, always poised like he’s on the defensive. He tries his best to keep things to a minimum, the two of them eating side by side in the kitchen instead of the grand dining room, kneeing knocking together as Steve compliments the chefs a million times over. He lets Bucky bring him fresh lemonade out by the pool but shies away from the butlers who have already learned Steve’s favorite things and offer them without prompting. But he lets Bucky lift a few hundred-dollar bottles of wine from the cellar and drinks them with grace, becoming too tipsy after just a few glasses to care much about how vintage the wine was.

As promised, Bucky takes Steve sailing. Steve thinks he could fill a museum with the picture of Bucky holding the ropes to one of his ships, his shirt open as the wind whips through it The sun’s brought out the caramel highlights to his hair and freckles that dot the bridge of his nose and his shoulders like constellations Steve wants to lose himself in. He catches Steve staring through his sunglasses and grins easily, carefree in a rare moment Steve doesn’t forget to savor.

“See somethin’ you like?” Bucky teases, the bright early August sunlight glinting off of his left arm.

“The boat is very nice.” Steve hums, running his fingers along the side. “She’s very pretty. Built like a dream.”

Bucky just laughs, running a hand through his hair and squinting out towards the sea. “You’re such a little shit sometimes, Rogers.”

“You love me.” Steve fires back, bolder now that they’re miles away from land with no one to hear them.

“More than anything.” Bucky says, softer. He squints towards the horizon, leaning against the ropes. “Hold tight, we’ll be there in a bit.”

“Where are you taking me?” Steve asks, leaning back and tipping his face towards the sun. He’s spent more time outside this summer than he ever has in his life, freckles dotting his crooked nose and cheeks. Steve thinks he looks ridiculous, but Bucky looks at him like he’s the Second Coming.

“You’ll see.” Bucky replies airily, smirking at Steve’s scowl.

Nearly a half an hour later Bucky docks them on a rocky beach of a tiny patch of land that could barely constitute being called an island. Bucky ties the boat to a nearby tree and holds his hand out, helping Steve off the boat and carrying a picnic basket on his other arm.

“I found this a long time ago when I was first learning how to sail by myself,” Bucky starts, pulling Steve through the trees with surety. “It’s too small for anyone to want to live here, but it used to be my little spot.” He had taken Becca and Howard here countless times, escaping the stuffiness of the Hamptons to sleep under the stars or lie in the grass for hours until their faces burnt. Steve is still quiet, taking everything in as he watches his step. Bucky leads him like he’s walked this path a million times and he’s sure he has—another secret facet to Bucky’s life Steve had never imagined. He wonders, in a flash of jealousy that makes him hate himself, if Bucky had taken other people here too to impress them. He shakes the thought away, willing it to be buried among the leaves as Bucky pulls him into a small clearing.

“Oh.” Steve breathes, staring at the sunlight filtering into the clearing. It’s picture perfect— _painting-perfect_ and he, not for the first time, wishes that he had been privy to this part of Bucky’s life long before both of them were so scarred by the world around them.

“I haven’t been here since I got back.” Bucky admits, his hand loosely holding Steve’s as they stand next to each other. “But I wanted to show you. Plus, it’s some privacy.” He adds, his grip tightening on Steve’s hand as he presses a kiss to the side of his head. Steve refuses to blush, already far too aware of how many times he had pushed Bucky away this summer because he was too afraid of being caught.

“You brought me here to get laid?” He manages to say, trying to deflect. Bucky just smirks, dropping his hand from Steve’s and snaking his arm around Steve’s waist.

“What, can’t imagine a spoiled boy like me getting dirty?” He teases, pulling Steve closer to him. “I may have been born with a silver spoon in my mouth but that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of gettin’ primal.”

Steve groans, shoving at Bucky. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossibly charming, you mean.” Bucky corrects, pressing a kiss to the top of his head and pulling away from him to start setting up the picnic. He drops the basket to the ground with a thud, opening it up and pulling out a blanket. “And for the record, I didn’t take you here to sleep with you. I like it better when there aren’t eyes on us every second of the day and we can just...be.” He admits, spreading the blanket out on the ground.

“You are the one that wanted to be in the Hamptons this summer.” Steve points out softly, toeing the grass.

“And I’m glad you said yes,” Bucky starts, kneeling down to unpack the glass containers of gnocchi. “But I do miss being able to kiss you whenever I want.”

Steve flushes despite himself, walking over to the blanket and kneeling to help. “I miss it too. But we’ll be back before the month is over.”

Bucky pulls a bottle of wine out from the basket, smiling up at Steve. “I know,” He pauses, pulling out the silverware and glasses. “I was thinking…”

“Always dangerous.” Steve teases, arranging the food containers in the middle of the blanket.

“I think we should move.”

Steve sighs, sitting back on his heels. “Buck…”

“I know, I know. You said you didn’t want to. But don’t you think it’s time for a change? We don’t have to get anything big.” He rushes, fiddling with a glass. “But get a place with a proper heater, maybe a shower that doesn’t leak? We can stay in Brooklyn but Stevie, you deserve better.”

Steve huffs, wrapping his arms around his middle. “You always hated that apartment.”

“I stayed for years, didn’t I?” Bucky hedges, offering Steve the glass. A peace offering. “Just think about it, okay? New apartment, new memories.”

He doesn’t want to admit to Steve that he still gets flashes of what happened in that apartment, the same kind of flashes he gets about the war and Austria. It’s the place where they both declared their love for each other, their first kiss, the first time they slept together. But it’s also the place they shot words at each other as cutting as bullets, Steve calling him a coward and Bucky calling him prideful enough to let Sarah die. He knows they’ve moved past it, talked it out a million and four ways in the middle of the night, moonlight streaking across their bare bodies. But it doesn’t stop the flashes, irrational little bastards. Steve found out Bucky was supposedly dead in that apartment. Bucky had locked himself out from Steve here after nearly killing a man who had the gall to name their relationship.  
He wants a fresh start. He needs a fresh start.

Steve sees something move across Bucky’s face, killing the protest forming on his lips. He swallows it, nodding instead. “Yeah, I’ll think about it.”

They pass the afternoon in a lazy haze, Steve’s head resting on Bucky’s heart as he listens to stories from Bucky’s childhood. They talk about Sarah, about Becca, about all the parties Bucky went to and the girls he avoided because they weren’t Steve. They imagine different lives for themselves—two men that live a hundred years in the future where men can be together without anyone blinking an eye. Flying cars and matching wedding bands for men. Visiting the moon and a world without war. They create their own paradise for themselves within the confines of a tiny island too small to support human life but large enough to support impossible human dreams.

Bucky hates to leave, watching the rocky shore disappear in the distance as he pilots them back towards Long Island. Steve watches his face carefully and wishes on the stars that aren’t out yet that a life like that exists for some version of them, in some timeline, somewhere.

* * *

They catch sight of Becca on the end of the dock, waving her hat like she hasn’t seen them in decades. She practically shouts as Bucky brings them into the dock, tying them down and helping Steve out as she buzzes around them.

“A bomb–”

“They’ve dropped–”

She can barely get her words out, her eyes caught between fear and relief. Steve’s gut twists in fear, some deep instinct inside of him going off.

“Becks.” Bucky grabs her shoulders gently, stopping her wild gesturing. “What happened?”

“We dropped a bomb,” She breathes out, sounding like she’s just run a marathon. “On Japan. Oh God, Jamie, it’s something awful.”

Bucky frowns, his hands dropping. “We’ve been fire-bombing Japan for months.” His voice is bitter, already disgusted at what his own damn country was doing to innocent civilians. “I don’t understand.”

“No, James. It’s–” She stops, pressing a hand to her mouth. “They said people _evaporated_.”

Steve stills, his whole body feeling clammy. It sounds like something right out of Bucky’s pulps, with Uncle Sam as the supervillain. He swallows hard, tries to focus.

“C’mon, let’s get inside.” Bucky says gently, taking Becca by the elbow and steering her back to the house. Steve follows his determined steps, his stomach sinking further and further as his mind runs wild with the possibilities.

Bucky is harsher than Steve’s seen him in months as soon as they get into the mansion, barking orders to bring him papers and the latest news wire, for someone to bring him a _damn radio_ , his entire posture rigid and eerily still. The reports start trickling in, President Truman filtering through the radio once again to detail what he calls an atomic bomb. Steve grows paler by the second, standing in the middle of the Barnes’ foyer listening to the president brag about how American scientific prowess had been been dropped in secret on civilians. Someone offers him a chair. Water. He sits down on the steps of the grand staircase, dimly wondering if he would have been involved if the Army had kept him.

“Steve. _Steve_.” Bucky’s voice cuts through the fog and he looks up into Bucky’s hard eyes. “Come on. We have to go.”

“Where?” He asks, small.

“Upstairs. You look like you’re about to pass out.” His tone turns a little softer but the rest of him is still hard and set, pulling Steve to his feet. “C’mon.”

They walk upstairs in a silent daze, Bucky pulling Steve into his room and locking the door behind them. He turns towards Steve, his face cracking into something more vulnerable. “I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”

Steve crumbles, pulling Bucky into a tight hug and taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Buck, what the hell is happening?”

“I don’t know, Stevie,” He admits, equally shaken as he stares hard over his shoulder at the self-powered magnetic contraption Howard had given him for his eleventh birthday. “But nothing good.”

* * *

Three days later, Becca pounds on Bucky’s door in the middle of the night to tell him that they’ve dropped another one, this time on Nagasaki.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut and rubs Bucky’s back as he vomits again and again, his whole body shuddering. When he closes his eyes, he sees the broken bodies of people in bombed-out houses in Italy, their limbs twisted and eyes blank.

New Mexico. More secret projects to end the war. Something big. Howard wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

* * *

“Bucky?” Howard’s voice filters through the phone exhausted and confused, like he had just been woken up from a nap.

“Tell me it wasn’t you.” Bucky’s voice shakes with anger, gripping the phone too tightly.

The other line is silent for a few beats, too long for Howard to play dumb. “Bucky–”

“ _Christ_ , Howard!” Bucky tips his head towards the ceiling, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wants to scream, throw the phone, run, _anything_ but listen to this.

“Bucky, you don’t understand. We needed–”

“How many fucking people died, Howard? They were _civilians_.” For all of Howard’s war posturing, he was still a civilian himself, not trained by the same loose standard of ethics the Army had tried to drill into him, nor apparently the rules of war. His left hand drags through his hair, pulling on the curls in frustration. The hand Howard had made him so that he could have a life after the war. Even after months in the military, he still cannot wrap his mind around the dichotomy of hands that can heal and hurt in such perfect tandem. He wants to be sick. He wants to dislocate the arm, so foreign and offensive to him now.

“And how many of our men would have died on the Pacific Theater if we hadn’t? They’re going to surrender, Buck.” Howard explains slowly, as if reciting something he’s told himself in the mirror a thousand times to be able to swallow this himself. It turns Bucky’s stomach like sour milk.

“Or what, you’ll drop another one on Tokyo?” He spits and Steve jumps back like he’s been slapped, staring at Bucky with incredulity. Bucky waves a dismissive hand, shaking his head. They wouldn’t. They won’t.

Would they?

“You of all people understand why we need to win this.”

“Hitler’s _dead_ , Howard. The fuckin’ Germans _surrendered_.”

“Hirohito hasn’t.” Howard’s voice is maddeningly level and it makes Bucky want to scream.

“How the _fuck_ can you justify this?” Bucky growls, fighting the urge to slam his fist against the counter.

“I told you the war would be ending soon.”

“At the cost of _innocent lives_?”

“They’re Japanese.”

Bucky grips the doorframe so hard is splinters under his hand. Metal hand. Howard’s work. Doesn’t hurt. Everything else does.

“Who the hell are you anymore.” He spits, low and dangerous. There’s a pause over the line, a heavy sigh.

“Buck, you don’t understand. Things were getting worse, the government needed me to–”

“Right, like this isn’t about the amount of money or recognition they’ll give you.” Bucky snaps, the plastic of the phone cracking beneath his hand. Steve’s head snaps up immediately, his sight line going directly towards the metal arm curled into a fist at his side before realizing it was his right hand.

The line is deadly silent, no one on either side daring even to breathe.

Then, finally, Howard speaks.

“I joined on after you were captured. To end the war. To find you sooner. But I know you think there’s only one person in the world that can think beyond money.”

The line goes dead before Bucky can even think to respond and he drops the receiver, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes to stop the hot, angry tears. Steve’s against him in a flash, moving him away from the cracked phone droning its dial tone and onto the couch as he rubs his back in circles that are too soothing for what Bucky deserves right now. It hurts, it all fucking hurts so bad. The weight and guilt of it all rest on his shoulders—millions dead and missing because of _him_.

No, because of _Howard_. Because of the damn government and the fucking Army that decided international war crimes didn’t apply to them. He feels sick. He feels like he’s being scraped apart from the inside. He feels lost.

Steve closes the door against the broken frame with a gentle click, cradling Bucky’s face in his hands.

“Bucky, look at me,” He asks gently, tipping Bucky’s chin up. “You couldn’t have stopped this.”

It’s exactly what he needs to hear, regardless of whether or not he thinks it’s the truth. He crumbles in Steve’s arms, heavy sobs wracking his shoulders as he breaks all over again. The war follows him home, even if it’s almost certainly done.

It never leaves him.

* * *

Japan surrenders less than a week later, but it doesn’t feel like a victory. Bucky tells Steve to pack his things. They leave the mansion and make their way back to Brooklyn in a slow crawl through the parades and celebrations. It turns both of their stomachs.

As soon as they get home, Bucky presses Steve against their bed and makes love to him slow and silent, desperately trying to chase out everything else. They lay together and block out the sounds of firecrackers being set off and drunken cheers in the streets, the rest of the city celebrating murder. Steve makes himself sick with the thought of how he wanted to participate in this cursed war, thought it justified to play with nature and declare himself the arbiter of justice.

It isn’t the only thing that bothers him, the unease he’s felt since he first heard about Howard from Becca finally building to a crescendo until he can no longer keep silent.

“Were you ever with him?” Steve asks, cutting through the silence of their apartment. Bucky stirs, half-asleep against Steve.

“What?”

“Howard.” Steve forces himself to say it, barely breathing now.

Bucky is quiet but Steve can hear the way his heart picks up, caught in another messy detail of his past.

“Steve–”

“You said no more secrets.”

Bucky sighs, swallows hard. “Yes.” It’s quiet, pained. Steve almost feels bad for bringing it up so close to what just happened, but not bad enough to let it drop just yet.

“When?”

Bucky shifts, squirming under the attention. “Years ago.”

Steve’s breath hitches in his throat, staying quiet and letting him finish.

“I thought I couldn’t have you. And so...it only happened once, Steve. We weren’t like...like how we are now.” Bucky reassures him, still staring hard at the ceiling. “It was just once.”

Steve tries to not let the jealousy get the best of him, repeating again and again to himself that he had Bucky _now_. Maybe if he had gotten his head out of his ass years ago and told Bucky how he felt, they wouldn’t be in this situation. But he didn’t, and now–

“Were there others?” The words are out before he can think about them, squeezing his eyes shut and desperately wishing he had a time machine. Damn mouth.

Bucky stills again. His tell, Steve knows. “A few.” He admits, slowly. “I thought maybe I could...get it out of my system. I never thought you wanted me. Thought maybe I could just get over you and...just go back to being your friend. Without me feeling like a creep because I could barely think straight when you were around me.”

Steve is quiet, thinking his next words through. “And now?”

“They could give me Clark Gable served up on a silver platter and I’d still take you any day of the week.” Bucky rolls over, pressing Steve against the mattress as he hovers over him. “Swear it on my ma.”

Steve allows himself a small smile despite the jealousy still firing through his veins. “Don’t disrespect your lovely mother like that.”

“I’m serious, Stevie. None of them matter. Just you.” He catches Steve’s eyes in the moonlight, desperate to make him understand. “I didn’t know. I was bein’ dumb. Careless. If I had more guts I would’ve just come out with it when I figured it out.”

“And when was that?”

“When someone kissed me and the only thing I could think of was how it wasn’t you.”

Steve’s breath sticks in his throat again and he exhales shakily, hating himself just a little for how easily Bucky can make him melt.

“Damn your silver tongue.” Steve grumbles, pulling him down for a kiss.

* * *

“James, it’s about time you started doing something.” His father’s voice echoes in the dining room, the four of them seated at the table for his mother’s birthday dinner. Steve was not invited, a detail that was not lost on Bucky, though Steve didn’t mind. He had a commission due anyway and pushed Bucky out the door gently with reassurances that it was family stuff, nothing personal. Clearly, it was better that he wasn’t here.

Bucky sets down his silverware gently, meeting his father’s gaze across the table.

“George, I thought we discussed–”

“Winnie, this conversation doesn’t concern you.” His father cuts her off sharply and it makes Bucky’s blood boil beneath his skin. He shoots his mother an apologetic look, trying his best to keep his voice in check for her sake.

“I’ve been thinking about re-enrolling at Columbia.” He says mildly, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Finish up my degree and start up something new on Long Island. There’s lots of men coming home that’ll need jobs.”

“I was talking about more practical terms, not charity.” His father bites, gripping his fork. “You’re sister’s set to be engaged any day now to Ford’s grandson.” He points his knife at Becca, who stares at her potatoes like they’re the most important thing in the world. “When’s the last time you even were seen with a woman?”

“ _George_.” Winnifred exclaims, looking aghast at her husband. He just holds a hand up, still glaring at his son.

“No, I want to hear his answer. Why aren’t you taking your position more seriously? You can’t expect the rest of the world to buy your ‘wounded hero’ bit for too much longer. They’re going to start wondering, and then they’re going to start talking. And when they start talking, you’re going to bring down this entire family.”

“I’m not going to force myself into a relationship with someone before I’m ready–”

“If you would worry more about your legacy than that _boy_ you spend all your time with, you might have your priorities in the right order.”

Silence falls over the table, no one daring to breathe.

“Lucky for you, then,” Bucky says coolly, picking up the knife and bending it in half with ease. “That I don’t give a fuck what my last name is. Especially if it’s yours.” He sets the bent knife in the middle of his plate and pushes back from his seat. “I’m finished. Happy birthday, mom.” He stalks out the door before anyone can call after him, his hands balled into fists as he demands for someone to drive him back to Brooklyn.

* * *

Steve asks what’s the matter when he gets back, a bundle of nerves and angry energy that Steve can feel coming off of him in waves. He keeps waving him off, pacing the apartment like he’s a trapped animal, anxious and on edge. “Just my father.” He keeps repeating, telling Steve it isn’t serious. It isn’t—his father won’t do anything yet. _Can’t_ do anything yet until the war is put further behind them and people start focusing on something else. But it still sets him on fire, the way he talks to him, to Becca, to his mother. The way he talks about Steve.

“Buck? I’m goin’ to bed.” Steve calls from the bedroom doorway, watching him anxiously. Bucky stops his pacing, crossing the living room to press a kiss to the corner of his lips.

“Go on. I think I need to take a walk or something. Get this out of my system.” He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “I’ll be in soon, okay?”

“Be careful.” Steve concedes, kissing him back and padding back into the bedroom. Bucky grabs his coat off the hook, though the early winter chill doesn’t bother him nearly as much anymore. He tries not to think about it too much.

* * *

Half an hour later, in the pitch blackness of midnight, Steve feels rough hands on his wrists.

“Buck?” He’s sleep-slow and confused, everything feeling _off_ like a bad dream.

“Ja, ich bin unterwegs.” Steve can barely react to the German before something’s stabbed sharp in his arm, flames licking down his arm as it spreads through his veins. Something sickly sweet is pressed over his nose and mouth when he tries to scream and he tumbles into blackness.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [dancin' around the lies we tell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20887481) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)




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